


Second of our Reign

by Cala, noelia_g



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, M/M, Terminator!au, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-06
Updated: 2010-08-06
Packaged: 2017-10-24 09:09:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cala/pseuds/Cala, https://archiveofourown.org/users/noelia_g/pseuds/noelia_g
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brad Colbert and his team are sent back in time with a simple mission: localise and destroy a crucial piece of technology that could change the fate of the war between humans and machines. Finding himself at Dartmouth in 1998, he should have expected things to turn out far from simple. But running into his future commanding officer and risking creating a time paradox? That’s just the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second of our Reign

Nate has been expecting the call for hours, but he still feels a surge of worry and anxiety when Corporal Sayers knocks on his door. She nods quickly, her voice a little roughened; she must have been running all the way from the communication room.

"Godfather will be on the line in five mikes, sir," she tells him.

Nate breathes out slowly, his knuckles whitening as his fingers tighten around the pen he's holding. Relief and nervousness are strange emotions to mix, but he's becoming quite adept at experiencing them bothsimultaneously .

"Thank you," he says. "Let Sergeant Colbert know I'd like him to join me," he adds and Kate nods again, biting her lip, her eyes growing curious, even though she knows better than to ask.

They're all curious, Nate knows. He's been trying to keep this one close to the vest, but he's in a damn military base, everyone is pretty good at picking up on their commander's moods; the shit rolls downhill, so people quickly learn how to avoid the avalanches.

Sayers' boots echo as she hurries down the corridor, towards the makeshift gym, where Brad is bound to be at this time of day. Nate walks in the opposite direction, not hurrying up yet, not until Brad joins him, his tall frame and long legs giving him an advantage in catching up with almost everyone.

They fall into familiar pace, one they might have worked out back in Iraq, or maybe later. Sometimes Nate thinks he can't remember the time when he didn't feel Brad's comforting presence at his side.

And that only makes what Nate has to do all the more difficult.

They walk in silence towards the communication room. Brad doesn't ask why Nate wants him there, and that unquestionable faith Brad has in Nate's decisions weighs on Nate for the first time in years. But he just pushes that uneasy feeling away and tries to concentrate on the mission at hand. He needs to execute this briefing in the best way possible.

He idly registers people moving out of their way, even though the tunnels where the Bravo base is located don't exactly provide much maneuvering space. At least the smell is gone. Mostly. Either that, or they have all gotten used to this, or have lost their sense of smell. But it doesn't pay to be picky when choosing the location for your underground resistance base.

"I think I figured out what this is about," Brad says, his voice acquiring that certain deadpan quality Nate knows means he's talking out of his ass. "It's my surprise birthday party. I hope there's a pinata. Or at least a stripper."

Nate nods. "Ray volunteered for the stripper duty," he says matter-of-factly. "I didn't have the heart to tell him no."

"I really hope it's not his slutty cheerleader routine. I've seen it one too many times."

Nate can't help a smile at the mournful tone, and the way Brad shakes his head in mock-dismay. Brad smiles back, a quick twitch of his lips. It's so familiar it feels like second skin, the words and the specificity of the jokes don't matter, what's important is the jolt he still feels when his eyes meet Brad's.

There's still a complete trust in Brad's eyes, and on any other day, this would be comforting. Today isn't any other day.

"Captain Patterson for you, sir," Corporal Davies says, pushing two buttons on his console and handing Nate the receiver.

"Thank you, Corporal, that would be all," Nate nods and waits for him to leave.

Brad Colbert isn't one to shuffle his feet nervously, but his expression suggests he's one step away from doing just that. Nate shakes his head at him, nods at the chair Davies has vacated.

"Nate," Patterson acknowledges him, his voice muffled, the line cracking on them as it's bound to do. "We weren't sure you were still alive in there, Alpha had reported you've been swarmed by Mainframe's scouts."

"There's been a significant movement as of late," Nate agrees. "But rumors of my demise have actually been exaggerated. Nevertheless, Alpha's intel is solid, there's definitely something brewing. Mainframe's been working on something major for a while now, we don't know what, but they're close to completion."

"We've been working on sending you the reinforcements, but Delta's tied away with the skirmishes in the DC area."

"We need to make a move now," Nate says, his voice steady. Brad looks up sharply at that, something in Nate's tone catching his attention. Nate holds his gaze as he continues the conversation. "It might be the last possible moment, before they have what they've been looking for."

"Has your location been compromised?"

"It's unlikely, but I've pulled the teams from the outer parts of the complex and put everybody on high alert," he says firmly. He hesitates over the next part, knowing that if he takes this one step there will be no return.

Even though Brad's face is a perfect Iceman mask, Nate sees the subtle frown and knows Brad registered the pause.

"I want to send a team to assess the situation on the ground. The worst case scenario is that they will provide us with the ETA of the Mainframe forces. But hopefully they will be able to learn what it is the scouts are looking for."

"Stand by," Patterson tells him and the only sound on the line is, for the moment, crackling static.

Brad holds Nate's gaze, his eyes curious and questioning. He has learned to read Nate a long time ago, can probably already tell Nate is straigt-out lying to his superiors. And yet he doesn't move, doesn't say a word, trusts Nate enough to wait.

Nate never dared to question how much he came to rely on Brad's unrelenting faith. It's what got him through the hardest moments in Iraq, and it is a great part of what carried him through the world going to hell in a handbasket after the D-Day.

Maybe today is finally the day when he betrays this trust.

"You have the green light, Cpt. Fick," Godfather tells him, taking over from Patterson. "Godfather has been waiting for the opportunity to take the fight to the Mainframe. We've been playing defense for too long."

"Yes, sir," Nate agrees. He's been counting on this, can't second guess himself now. He can feel the tension in his shoulders disappearing as the first pieces of his plan fall into place.

Brad breaks the eye contact for a brief moment, his gaze travels down, no doubt registering the change in Nate's stance. Nate's tempted to look away, pretend as if Brad isn't there, but somehow he knows it would make him feel like a coward. And so he recaptures Brad's gaze and silently begs him to understand. He also thanks any higher power that might still be around that their communication channels can only carry audio feed.

"I'll expect to hear more from you during the next scheduled contact transmission. Godfather out," Ferrano says, the static growing stronger as he disconnects. They can't keep the contact on for too long, they have learned that the hard way - this is also why their command center is now deep in the ocean, resurfacing only when strictly necessary.

Mike has been complaining about that one whenever Nate has a chance to speak to him. Says he'd actually prefer the sewers.

"Well," Brad says, drawing out his words, after a moment of silence stretches between them like a piano wire. "I have always been a great admirer of the art of bullshitting your superiors, but it achieves a whole new level of artistry when it comes from one of the officers. I bow down to your skills, sir."

Nate can't quite read the feeling under the tone yet; sometimes it's harder than usual to read Brad's mind. "I needed you to witness this," he mutters and Brad nods.

"I appreciate the entertainment. It's been a while since I caught a good show."

"I needed you here so you'd know the extent of what I'm asking you to do. This mission won't be command-approved, I'm just asking you to trust me."

Brad's gaze is unflinching as it zeroes in on Nate, steady as if he was looking through the scope of a riffle, but infinitely warmer. "We're way beyond the time when you needed to ask for my trust."

Yes, Nate knows that. That knowledge is right there, like a blade, twisting in his stomach. Nate knows he doesn't have to ask for Brad's trust anymore. But this one time, he needs Brad to give it to him anyway.

"I do, this one time," he says slowly. Voicing his thoughts feels awkward, almost alien. He didn't need to do that with Brad in a very long time. It's somehow fitting to lose that connection now, with everything they've been through and with everything he is about to put Brad through.

"Sir?" Brad's voice pulls him out of his own thoughts. He looks at Brad again, realizing the other man is now standing closer. He thinks he can see Brad's fingers twitching slightly, as if he was trying not to move his hand forward. Nothing but wishful thinking on Nate's part, no doubt.

"I need you to assemble a team," he says firmly, deciding that staying concentrated on the mission will be better for both of them. Better for Nate's sanity, too. "Two men. I won't risk more... As far as anybody's concerned you'd be going on a recon mission to try and find out what the Mainframe scouts are looking for."

"But that's not our real mission," Brad looks at Nate intently and Nate just stands there, waiting for the spark of recognition in Brad's eyes. It doesn't take long. "You already know what they are looking for."

Nate knows that tone, even though it was never directed at him. It's perfectly even, stripped of any emotion, and if Nate didn't know better he'd say Brad didn't care he's been kept in the dark.

"Thirty clicks from here, there's an old college campus. Before the D-Day, the scientists there were among the best in the bioengineering field. Based on what Alpha reported so far, I think the machines are looking for something connected to the research done at that lab."

Brad's eyebrows rise a fraction, and Nate can catalogue the emotions that flicker through his eyes, never reaching as far as the rest of his face - surprise, suspicion, curiosity. Brad's interest is picked, and he's working it out in his head, putting the pieces together.

"You could have easily told Godfather that," he says, his head minutely tilted to the left. "What aren't you telling me?" There's no sting in Brad's words, the trust Nate asked for given freely and without hesitation. Nate can't help but wonder if his next words are going to change that.

"There is no way we can send a team through the enemy lines now, the campus is heavily guarded, and we don't even really know where the thing they're looking for is at the moment. But we know where it was in 1998."

"Alright," Brad nods quickly. "And that helps us how?"

Nate smiles, he can't help it. This is going to sound completely ridiculous, but there you are. "After you assemble your team, you'll be going to Dartmouth, to locate and destroy the tech the Mainframe scouts are looking for. Dartmouth in 1998 to be precise."

Brad doesn't even move a muscle, his expression impassive as he holds Nate's gaze. "James Cameron is going to sue," he says finally.

"Brad."

"So, this is how it looks like when the insanity sets in?" Brad asks, shaking his head, but he looks as if he actually believes Nate. That's both unexpected and exactly what Nate asked for, but the level of trust Brad seems to have in him is terrifying, a hot and cold feeling in his stomach, mixed with amazing relief.

"If you don't want to go, Sergeant, I can simply ask Kocher."

"Now that was uncalled for, sir," Brad shakes his head sadly.

That's an opening for a joke, ready for Nate to use, to difuse the situation, allow the usual humor in. Instantly, he appreciates what Brad is offering with this. But he doesn't want the easy way out this time.

He raises his hand, to... He's not sure why he does that, and so after a second, he lets it drop without making any contact and moves away. Putting more distance between them.

"I can't order you to do this, Brad," he says, not taking his eyes off of Brad. He sees Brad shift slightly, standing to attention, ready to obey the order Nate refuses to give.

"How exactly am I going to go back in time?"

"The technology has actually existed for a while, a few years before the D-Day. As far as I know the only time jumps were contained to experiments in laboratiores, but it works. I'm assured of this," he says, the familiar words rolling out of his tongue easily. But this time there's an actual conviction behind them. He knows it will work.

He just can't really tell Brad how he knows that. This is the important part, this is why he needs Brad's unquestioning trust.

More than just needs it, he wants it, with a strenght that surprises even him. He holds Brad's gaze, waiting for the answer, and when it comes, a slow nod, it's like a weight lifted. And an even worse weight added in, because this is where it really begins.

"Poke and Ray," Brad says, instead of an actual answer. They deal better this way, the matter-of-fact discussion of the mission's particulars and Nate is grateful for the reprieve. He's afraid he would have said too much otherwise. "They're my team."

"I won't order them to go either, it has to be their decision."

Brad smiles slightly. "You won't order them, Captain, I will. Besides, Ray is going to jump at the chance to play Kyle fucking Reese and fuck some waitress."

Nate almost smiles at that, the corner of his lips threatening to rise, despite his best efforts. And he sees Brad dropping his gaze for a brief moment, noticing the almost smile, and looking up again, quiet satisfaction obvious in his features.

"I'm not sure the world is ready for more Person genes, so please, try to keep him in line."

Brad nods solemnly, quiet for a moment. "I assume no shooting any grandfathers, either?" he asks throughtfully and Nate shrugs.

"The technology's creators posed that whatever you changed has already been changed. So simply don't do anything you know didn't happen."

"Can't find myself and tell me that getting drunk in Tijuana would be a bad idea?"

"Frankly, I'm amazed you'd ever think getting drunk in Tijuana would be a good idea."

"Seemed like, at the time," Brad mutters, and runs his hand over his mouth, knuckles brushing his chapped lips. "Fuck. This is really happening, isn't it?"

"What Mainframe is developing... we've seen bits of it, it's practically mind control. There's no way to fight that. And we're already outnumbered and outgunned, I don't have enough men to send into fight, and everytime I'm sending a team, I risk losing more. I won't let this go on, not when I have an alternative. Even if that alternative is time travel," he says wryly, looking away.

Brad is silent for long enough that Nate has to look back up, to make sure he's still standing there, he's so quiet and still. When he does look up, catching Brad's gaze again, it's almost like a jolt of electricity running through him, to see the heat in Brad's eyes.

"Remember the burning dog of Al Kut?" Brad asks, his tone deceptively light, belying the emotion in his face, a feeling that Nate can't quite decipher. "You got much better at the moto speeches since then," Brad adds, almost fondly.

"Brad..." Nate starts and stops instantly, the words never forming on his lips. It's not the best time of all, possibly the worst, but he's not sure they have any more time, and isn't this fucking ironic?

"I better tell the kiddies about the road trip," Brad says when it's clear Nate won't continue. Nate nods, because there's not much more he can do...

An hour later he's in his office, Brad's leaning against the wall and Ray and Poke look at him as if he grew another head. It makes Nate really acknowledge the difference between Brad's reaction and how Ray and Poke are behaving right now. The complete trust on one side, and the suspicious frowns, looking from Nate to Brad and back again, as if they were pulling a practical joke on them.

Nate is set in his decision not to give a single order during this mission. So instead of moving straight to the briefing, he just waits for it all to set in.

He watches Poke look for words and fail. He sees Ray shaking his head.

"So, let me get this straight. We're going on a secret very hush hush mission back in time to save humanity from the evil machines who want to assfuck us and leave us drooling on the ground afterwards."

Person certainly has a gift for choosing the worst words to describe any situation, but his version doesn't sound any less believable to what Nate told Brad. Nate doesn't respond right away, trying to find the right words. But before he even opens his mouth, Ray turns to Brad.

"Have you been hiding the good shit from your pal Ray-Ray? Because whatever you and the Captain are smoking in your free time beats what Q-Tip has cooked up in the lower levels. Not that he cooked up anything in the lower level, sir," he quickly amends looking back at Nate, remembering his CO is present.

"Ray, shut the fuck up. Captain already knows about the moonshine factory."

Ray mutters something inaudible under his breath, but he's clearly processing the news; profanity-ridden spiels are how he copes, and he's best left to that, Nate has learned a long time ago.

"Sergeant Espera?" he asks instead and Poke looks at him, shaking his head.

"I don't even know what to say to this," he mutters.

"That's a first," Brad comments, stepping easily into the role of the peanut gallery. "You need a moment to contemplate?"

"If this weren't you two, I'd think you finally cracked. Grasp on the reality is among the first things to go, along with your sex drive," Poke says and shakes his head, as if he still couldn't believe it. But he does, Nate can see it already. Not a complete conviction, but enough to think it's a valid mission.

After all, they're living in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, time travel seems like the next logical step.

Sometimes Nate wonders if maybe he did finally crack. There are days and, worse, there are nights, when he doesn't believe himself, or his own memory. It's fallible. At a sleepless four in the morning, when the exhaustion seems like an old friend, his faith lapses, his conviction quivers. But he can't afford it today.

"When do we leave?" Ray asks after a moment, his eyes wide as if he's been gulping down ripped fuel.

"No time like the present," Nate says and Ray shakes his head in disappointment.

"We're doing this routine now? If I'd known, I'd have come better prepared in bad time jokes," he pauses, pretending to think hard. "Hey, I have one. Brad, do you know what mission are we on?"

"Permission to shoot his grandfather in the past, sir?"

"A time-sensitive fucking mission," Ray proclaims cheerfully. There's a very brief moment when Nate is entertaining the idea of giving Brad permission to shoot Person's grandfather.

"As much as it pains me, Sergeant, Person's grandfather is off limits. All of you should try and limit any and all actions to the mission-related only. Anything you do could change the future. And if you do that you might not be able to return," he pauses and nods. "You should go get ready, pretend it's just another recon mission."

"Says the guy who spends his free time inventing time travel," Ray mutters and salutes half-heartedly, still shaking his head, before he heads out, followed swiftly by Poke.

Brad doesn't move an inch, still leaning against the wall, his head bowed a little, enough that Nate can't see his eyes in the low lights of his office. He doesn't quite know what to say. The problem isn't that he doesn't have things he'd like to say to Brad, the problem is choosing the right ones.

They always worked best when communicating wordlessly, in sync since the OIF, but it doesn't seem like enough now.

"I'd better go get our gear," Brad says finally, pushing himself away from the wall. "Poke's probably wasting his time on a teary goodbye with Gina. Or a farewell fuck," ha adds after a brief moment of thought. "And if Ray is the one packing for us, we're going to end up with backpacks full of ripped fuel and not much else."

With that, Nate knows this is the last moment he has with Brad, before the team goes on to level two. His last chance for telling Brad everything.

"Brad..." he starts before he can think about what he's going to say. As usual, Brad immediately looks up, holding his gaze. Nate can tell he's waiting for something. Probably for Nate to continue, maybe give him some final pointers.

He wants to tell him to be careful, but the words would probably never leave his mouth. Or worse, they would and Nate wouldn't be able to stop telling Brad what he's been hiding from the other man for all those years.

Not the best choice right before the mission. Nor is telling him Nate would take his place if only he could...

He hopes Brad knows it all, despite Nate's inability to voice his thoughts.

"Sir," Brad nods at him. There's a slight smile and Nate exhales slowly.

"I'll see you all on level two."

Brad nods and leaves, and Nate sends a word to the guys on level two to get ready, and gets on with his own preparations. He has begun putting this together a good few years ago, right after OIF, after the world began proving to him that maybe he wasn't entirely crazy. He hopes he at least has the essentials right. They can't carry much, three men and a basic gear is the most they can send back with their energy levels, but Nate hopes this would make a good start.

He makes his way downstairs, to the makeshift R&D room, which doubles as Hasser's quarters most of the time. They've been working on this for months now, Hasser and Allen and Wright, who stopped being a reporter a long time ago, but who still has the same curiosity that got him to Iraq. Now he's researching time travel. It's a step in some direction, certainly, Nate just can't tell which.

"We're almost ready," Walt says, raising his hand as his gaze remains fixed on the readings on his screen.

"We're actually almost certain it will work," Allen adds, as if this was supposed to sound comforting. Considering that half a year ago, when Nate first brought the project to them, Allen just stared in disbelief for good five minutes, one eyebrow raised as if it got stuck that way, this might actually be comforting.

"Any ideas on how to bring us back after we're done?" Brad asks, stepping into the room, backpack on one shoulder.

"There's a remote," Wright volunteers, handing him the piece in it's leather casing. "We didn't have a chance to test it, but it should work," he says, almost cheerful, and Brad gives him a long look.

"It's the revenge for all the times we fucked with you in Iraq, isn't it?" he asks suspiciously, then nods. "Well done," he says, as if he is praising a puppy who learned a new trick.

Nate shakes his head, then nods at Person and Espera, who file in, bickering over who gets to drive the DeLorean. Person looks around and narrows his eyes when he sees Walt. "You've been holding out on me, you little shit," he says. "When I get back, you're sleeping on the couch for all the eternity, or until I'm satisfied with the vast number of blowjobs I get for being kept in the dark," he says, then glances quickly at Nate. "Shit, wasn't supposed to be telling," he adds apologetically, an almost comical expression of mock-panic crossing his face.

Nate laughs, because fuck, this would exactly be the most important thing at the moment, upholding the DADT.

He hands Brad another package.

"You should take this as well," he tells him with a small smile. Hopefully they will find the contents useful. "Try to blend in as soon as possible, and keep out of trouble."

"We're professionals, sir," Brad responds almost immediately, raising his free hand to his chest, showing how much Nate's wounded him. They are all behaving as if it was just another mission and Nate feels his throat tightening. This whole situation, it's almost too much for him. He's been through a lot over the years, Iraq, D-Day, fighting for survival ever since. But somehow, saying goodbye to Brad Colbert is the most difficult.

"It's been an honor, Brad," he says quietly. Because he doesn't know what else to say. He tries to keep his expression neutral, but something in Brad's look tells him he fails at that.

"We'll be back, Nate," Brad says gently, in a tone Nate hadn't heard before.

"Of course, I'm assured of this," he says in response, but it sounds fake to his own ears. With one last glance at Brad he moves to the machinery where Walt and Jason are standing.

"Okay Walt, let's do this."

"If you could please step into the ring," Walt says, stepping around the console to make sure the wires connect precisely as they need to. Allen is typing in a series of codes while Evan checks the screens with a printout he's holding.

Nate knows the basics, he's been following the research for years, but they have perfected it, made it their own. And right now Nate has no heart to concentrate on the readings and data flowing through the screen, right now all his attention is on the three men stepping inside, on Brad.

"Let's do the time warp, Hasser," Ray volunteers with a wink, apparently getting the second wind of puns. He'll probably drive Brad up the wall in the next few hours. Or, in the few hours in 1998, to be precise.

"Okay, you have the remote," Allen tells them, hand hovering over his console. "Sequence is 14-5-8," he adds with a wry smile. "Push that in and press execute. This should return you here. Give or take a few minutes, up to an hour, maybe."

"To this precise location?" Brad asks matter-of-factly.

"Yes. No matter where you are when you press it, it will get you back here. But you better be close to each other when you do. No further than a few metres away. That's important."

"And not to shoot any grandfathers," Poke rolls his eyes. "Yeah, we get it.

Ray frowns. "I'd actually like to shoot my grandfather. He was a fucking asshole."

"You actually know who your grandfather was?" Brad asks in mock-amazement, then his smile smoothens when he looks at Nate, almost to the point of disappearing.

"Good luck," Nate tells them, but he's looking at Brad.

"Here we go," Walt says quietly, and something rings loudly in Nate's ears.

He steps forward instinctively, still holding Brad's gaze. "Brad..." he starts, but the words are drowned under the loud crackling sound, and the sudden strong light makes him blink. When he opens his eyes, Brad's gone. All three of them are gone.

"It worked," Wright mutters, voice full of amazement. Nate gets it - he knew it would work and yet only now it's sinking in.

"So, now we wait?" Walt asks him, concern written all over his face.

Nate nods, but doesn't take his eyes off of the spot where Brad was standing just mere seconds ago. That was it. Nothing more Nate can do. All the years of planning, of careful preparation, led to this moment.

Nate takes a deep breath and forces himself to look away from the ring. "Inform me if anything changes," he tells Hasser. He knows Walt will stay in the room no matter how long, but Nate doesn't have the strength to tell him it's pointless.

Once again, like so many times before, he wishes he didn't know about the research. He wishes he have left the Marines, or never joined in the first place. Brad once told him that Nate carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Nate rolled his eyes at that, he remembers. But now, walking back to the communication room, he feels it. Feels all the responsibility, the pain. He suddenly feels that weight on his shoulders and it forces him to stop. He reaches to the side, the cool touch of the wall grounding him a little.

And in that very moment he's quite certain that he won't see Brad ever again.

  
***

 _The few weeks before they leave for Iraq are surreal and strange, an almost dreamlike and nightmatish quality of anxiety and foreboding. They're all awaiting a word that the war won't happen after all, but Nate never believes they will be so lucky._   
__

_  
_He gets his platoon together, men coming in from different backgrounds, some with an Afghanistan experience to match his. He meets Gunnery Sergeant Wynn and they hit it off almost immediately, going through the rosters of the marines in their platoon in companionable silence._   
_

_Nate comes across the name in a serendipitous moment, few seconds before the man himself knocks on the office doors. Sergeant Brad Colbert, his team leader._

 _For the last few years Nate has almost managed to convince himself he imagined it all. But there he is, standing right in front of Nate. Younger, with less scars, but with the same cool and composed expression, eyes sharp, taking in his surroundings._

 _The initial shock makes Nate freeze, and so he's just looking up at Brad, eyes wide and surprised._

 _"Sir?" Brad's voice seems the same as he remembers, but instead of the warm tones it's calculating, detached. They don't know each other, Nate realizes and immediately looks down at the files in front of him._

 _"Sergeant Brad Colbert, I presume," Nate says, looking back at him, but he can't quite hold Brad's gaze yet, his eyes flickering to the side, quite probably giving him a feverish look, what with the flush creeping up his neck and the damn tremble he can't quite keep from his voice._

 _Brad nods, a barely perceptible nod of his head and a curt "Sir" as an acknowledgment, while his eyes turn to Mike for a brief moment, in what Nate can see is exasparation and disappointment. News travel fast around the Marines, and Nate assumes Mike might have already shared that he doesn't consider their new LT entirely useless. Now Brad is forming his own opinion and it isn't favorable._

 _"We're figuring out how we'll divide the teams," he says and this time at least he manages to keep his voice level and unflinching. He'll take any victory he gets, at this moment. "How do you feel about losing Sergeant Espera to leading the second team?"_

 _Brad gives him a long look. "No feelings at all, sir," he says, perfectly impassive, but Nate thinks he detects a certain distaste. "But Tony's a good choice," he adds, and if it was anyone else, the words would be accompanied by a long-suffering sigh._

 _After Brad leaves, Mike shrugs. "Don't worry, Nate," he says, looking for all the world like he's trying not to laugh. "It's the Iceman, everyone is intimidated by him," he says lightly._

 _Nate gives him a small, uncertain smile but doesn't say anything. What's there to say, after all? How can Nate possibly explain that he is not by any means intimidated by Brad? That looking at Brad is like seeing a ghost of somebody very close to him?_

 _But if he's going to lead Brad, and the rest of the platoon, into Iraq, if the war really is happening, he needs to pull himself together. Or nobody's going to survive this._

 _He asks Mike to pick this up tomorrow and leaves the room. He hopes some time alone will help put things in perspective._

 _As he walks, he doesn't have any destination in mind, he just lets his legs carry him. And it's only when he hears his name that he looks around, realizing he walked all the way to the gym. Through the crack in the door he sees Brad. He stops in his tracks. He doesn't want to enter the room. If he was one to lie to himself, he'd say he doesn't want to intrude on the conversation._

 _"And? Are we as fucked as Kocher?" Nate hears somebody ask Brad. It takes a second but he finally places the voice, a familiar voice. Ray is here as well. It's like everything is falling into place, making the future inevitable._

 _"Gunny Wynn says he's solid," Brad says, a diplomatic reply in a clipped tone. He's careful, reserving his judgement, Nate supposes, but there are hints of displeasure under the dryness, and if Nate can hear that, Ray probably gets that too._

 _"Sure, but that's somewhere in the Gunnies code of honor bullshit, you don't talk smack about the officers. I'm pretty sure Griego would tell you that the sunshine comes out of the Encino Man's ass. Seriously, homes, what do you think?"_

 _"That we're fucking Marines, Ray. We make do."_

 _Ray snorts. "We're fucked," he concludes._

 _Nate doesn't kid himself, he fucked up the first impression royally, even with a rather advanced warning. And that warning was, probably, the problem. He waited for Brad in Afghanistan, but the man hadn't shown. Nate met Espera, but not Person. He half-convinced himself that even if everything he remembered happened, then maybe some other mission to the past changed the events, changed his future, and maybe he wouldn't see Brad ever again._

 _Didn't think he would meet Brad and then fuck this up from the get go, but you deal with what you have, and he is determined the second impression will be vastly different._

 _He gets his chance the very next day at the meeting with his team leaders. He's determined to show them, Brad especially, that he's the right man for the job. That he's going to keep them alive and every single one of them will come home._

 _"Good morning, gents," he greets them and makes sure he doesn't look at Brad longer than at the others. "So far Godfather doesn't have any word as to when we're going to ship out, but make sure your teams are ready. In the meantime, I reviewed everybody's files and there will be some changes, the biggest of which will be splitting Team One into two vehicles. Sgt Espera will head the second vehicle and Sgt Colbert," he looks straight at Brad, "you and your team will be on point for the platoon. Sgt Espera will be your ATL."_

 _"Roger that," Brad nods, and Espera echoes that with an acknowledgment of his own._

 _Nate takes a breath before he continues. "We're making some changes to the command vehicle. We won't have the comfort of the stationary headquarters, the whole platoon is on the move. Four people only, me and Gunny Wynn, Christeson and Stafford. Tim Bryan will ride with sergeant Lovell. Sergeant Colbert would be leading the column, followed by Espera, the command vehicle, Patrick and Lovell at the rear."_

 _There are nods all around, team leaders agreeing with the arrangement they had painstakingly worked out with Mike during the last few days. Nate doesn't try to fool himself by pretending there isn't one person whose opinion he values more than others, but he also trusts the experience of the others. He knows it's too soon to see trust, but Nate's determined to earn it from Brad, and from the entire platoon. But for now, showing them he knows what he's doing will have to do._

 _So when his gaze falls on Brad again, in a way, Nate's pleased to see the raised eyebrow. He likes to think, he already knows Brad well enough and that it's surprise and maybe even acceptance he sees in Brad's eyes. Unlike the last time, Nate doesn't look away. He holds Brad's gaze, raising his own eyebrow just slightly. He doesn't really trust his voice around the other man, so he remains silent, simply waiting for the reaction._

 _"Sir," Brad nods and there's no hidden displeasure or irritation, so Nate considers it a small victory._

 

 _***_

As it turns out, the defining feature of time travel is fucking cold. It's over in a flash, a rather blinding flast, but the cold feeling hangs on, like ice in Brad's veins.

He doesn't voice the thought out loud, because he really doesn't need the Iceman puns. It's bad enough Ray will be stuck on the time travel jokes for the forseeable future, or until he finds something else to distract himself.

"Are we there yet?" Ray asks from somewhere to Brad's left, moving and splashing the water around.

Because of course they landed waist-deep in the fucking sewers, and this time they are functioning and stinking worse than the headquarters ever did.

Brad stands up, as somewhere along the time travel bullshit he managed to fall on his ass in the fucking water, and takes in his surroundings. He can't believe that in several years this will be a part of the human resistance headquaters.

"Everybody alright?" he asks and checks whether his weapon is still operational. Fuck knows how time travel can influence weaponry. He hears both Poke and Ray respond that they are okay... Fine, Poke starts a rant about the fucking water and the fucking cold, but Brad assumes that if Poke has the strength to complain he is okay.

"Let's get out of this water and check our gear," he orders immediately, cutting into the running commentary. His weapon might be fine but the rest of the gear might not.

They don't leave the sewers immediately, even though Brad would want nothing more than to get out of this place. But first they need to assess their combat effectiveness, so when they manage to find a relatively dry piece of concrete, he takes off his backpack and starts going through the contents.

It's not completely soaked through, Brad pulled it out of the water before that could happen, most of the provisions and his clothes are dry. So far so good.

"All good," Poke reports and Ray shakes his head.

"Yeah, maybe yours," he mutters. "I just realised I hadn't packed any condoms. That's a fucking tragedy."

"Ray, it's 1998," Brad says dryly. "You can buy condoms, I'm sure you remember that. Although I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't, frankly, I am amazed your whiskey tango ass is aware of any methods of contraception."

Provided it is 1998, who the fuck knows where they really landed? Could be Kansas in the 50s, for all he knows, and wouldn't that just make his day.

"I could buy condoms, Brad. Provided we had any money. Or have you been saving your pennies for a rainy day?"

It's excellent timing, Brad has to admit, because he's just been opening the package Nate handed him before they left, and there, in a zip-log waterproof bag, is a rather generous stack of dollar bills. "Apparently the Captain was," he tells Ray, shaking his head.

Only Nate, Brad thinks with amazement and fondness, and briefly wonders how long Nate's been really planning this. Putting together this kind of money, at least a few thousand, in a world where money's been used mostly as a kindling for the last few years... "Fuck me," he mutters, when he spreads the bills out and realises none of them is newer than printed in 1997. He let's Poke take the bills from him and he checks what else is there in the little package.

There's a piece of paper, neatly folded, with contact information of some guy that... The shock on Brad's face is probably showing as the new information sinks in. Nate not only made sure they had the money, but he also provided them with a guy who makes IDs, something they would definitely need during their mission.

"How the fuck did our Captain arrange for this? It has been previously established that the man is good, but this is some serious time-defying shit," says Poke, awe clear in his voice.

"Not only we are lead by Iceman, who can fucking kill you with his brain, our Captain also invents time travel and pulls money out of his ass. How did we not win the war within the first three minutes?" Ray asks and pulls the bills close to his nose, inhaling and moaning. "Fuck, I forgot how fucking good money smells. Let's buy ourselves pussy!"

Brad makes sure his face shows a good amount of disgust as he takes the money back from Ray and places it carefully back inside the bag, along with the sheet of paper and the string of numbers he has already memorised. "Careful, Ray, we shouldn't spend it all at once. After we get settled in, you can have three hours to spend pussy hunting. That's one hundred seventy eight minutes to find someone desperate enough to let you fuck them, and two minutes for the actual fucking. I'm sure it's more generous than you need."

"It's more generous than your mother needs," Ray says, then gets a faraway look. "Hey, Brad, how far exactly are we from your mother's house? I'm sure she'd be very accomodating..." he offers, leering.

"Gentlemen, let's move. The Captain did his part in assuring we have resources, let's do ours now."

That puts them all back into the right mindset. Mission first, the insults and plans to murder Person before he gets even close to the right state and Brad's mother later.

It takes a moment to orient themselves and figure out where is the closest exit, allowing them to get to the surface. It shouldn't affect Brad so much, being able to leave the sewers and not expect being shot at the moment the hatch closes.

"Shit, dog, we stink like a motherfucker," Poke mutters as they move. They don't have to consult each other, it's obvious that first thing after leaving the sewers is to take cover and assess the situation. They need to set up base of operations as well, while they gather the initial intel. Hopefully they are in the right place and the right time. Brad doesn't think he can wait years and years for Dartmouth research geeks to create the right technology...

"We need to establish a base," he says looking at Poke. "Hotel?" he asks and Poke just nods.

Ray smiles widely. "With the cash the Captain gave us, we could set up in a five star hotel! Shit, I've never been to any, I hear they have fucking hot tubs and all you can drink minibar and secret escort phone numbers..."

"As much as it would entertain me greatly to watch your whiskey tango ass being thrown out of an establishement like that, I don't think attracting that sort of attention to us would be considered a good idea."

It's dark outside, but not late enough that there aren't people walking around, giving them strange looks. After all, they have just walked right out of dirty sewers and they look and smell the part.

"Fucking paintball," Poke says out loud. "What's wrong with going out of town to play?" he adds, a perfect mixture of annoyance and whine. Man missed his calling, could have done theatre or some other arty bullshit.

It lets them off the hook from some of the attention they've been getting, as a girl they've just passed seemed close to dialing 911.

Ray stops and picks up a newspaper left on a park bench. Brad still can't get over this; park benches and couples necking on them, and people walking their fucking dogs. There's a golden retriever taking a shit, looking as if it didn't have a care in the world, and it probably doesn't, what with the lack of people gunning for it and wanting to call it dinner.

"Hey, get this, we're really in 1998," Ray mutters, showing Brad the newspaper. His tone is full of almost maniacal glee, like the world of opportunity is just opening for him.

Brad hopes this world of opportunity contains some hot water and possibly soap. At this very moment, he's a man of few needs.

Thankfully, his needs right now are closely connected to the success of this mission. Blending in is important.

Once they get to the motel that looks like it's renting rooms by the hour, he gets distracted by the idea of hot water and possibly a comfortable bed and let's Ray check them in. He soon realizes his mistake when he hears Ray rattling off names to the clerk.

"Zac Efron, Robert Pattison and Taylor Lautner," he says firmly and Brad has to stop himself from protesting right there and then. Oh, but he will make Person pay, and it's going to be very painful. Judging from Poke's expression, he'll have to get in line, but Brad is okay with waiting. After all, he's a fucking Recon Marine.

Interestingly, the clerk doesn't bat an eye, as he gives them the key to their room.

"Ray, I will kill you for this. Of all the stupid bullshit you've done over the years, this takes the fucking cake," he tells his friend, voice low.

"Right there with you, Brad. Fuck, at least I can pretend to be the kid that actually can kick ass and not just dazzle people with the power of his bangs. What with his martial training prior to the movies..."

Brad stares at Poke and almost stops walking. This is fucking riddiculous. "The fuck?" he asks matter-of-factly.

"All you have going for you is being gay for Harry Potter," Poke tells him with some degree of satisfaction.

Brad really doesn't have time or energy for this bullshit. "Have you hit your head while you time-traveled? Did your atoms unscramble the wrong way? Did you always have an encyclopedic knowledge of the teenage idols or did you just now turned gay or moronic?"

"Don't mind him," Ray tells Poke. "The glitter must have gotten up his ass."

Brad rolls his eyes and opens the door to their room, dropping his backpack on one of the beds. His boots squelch when he moves, his clothes have almost dried up, but the dirt is caked all over him, and he really doesn't have the time, strenght, or motivation to deal with his teammates new found teenage crushes on the fucking Twilight retards.

"I call dibs on the first shower," he tells them. "So I can use up all the hot water while you girls braid your hair and giggle about boys."

"Fuck you, Brad. You're just jealous because we don't giggle over you like half of the base does," Ray shrugs, reaching for Brad's backpack and fishing out the zip-log bag. "I saw a vending machine downstairs, I'm going to see what kind of chow I can score," he says, taking out a twenty.

Brad flips him off on principle, and goes to the bathroom and locks the door behind him. He takes a deep breath and turns on the hot water, allowing the steam to fill the small space. He tries not to take off his clothes too eagerly, even if there's nobody to see him.

When the hot water hits his skin he doesn't even bother to stop the moan that escapes his lips. That feels so good. Brad runs his hands up and down his body, not really washing himself, but just revelling in the experience. And if this doesn't sound like an opening scene to a skin flick... Which he wouldn't mind right now.

He can't really explain how he goes from enjoying the hot water hitting his skin to imagining a hand trailing down his body. No, that's a lie, he knows exactly how he gets to that point. He also knows very well who the hand belongs to.

He doesn't whisper Nate's name, years of sharing his very immediate space with other people taught him something, but as he closes his eyes and wraps his hand around his cock, his mind is filled with images of his CO.

It's relatively new, to consciously think of Nate like this, if by relatively new you mean years in the making. Brad thinks it started as far back as the fucking OIF, brief images passing though his mind every now and then, even though most of his combat jacks were still filled by images from that stained old copy of Jugs.

But it's not tits and ass that fill his thoughts now. Well, maybe ass. But what he thinks about most is the way Nate's voice cracked the moment before they time-fucking-traveled, the moment before everything filled up with bright light. Brad didn't think he imagined that, the need in Nate's voice.

He thinks this is exactly how Nate would say his name if he was here, if Brad was pressing him against the steamed-up doors of the shower. Brad won't say Nate's name now, but he imagines he could make Nate say his, hoarse and desperate.

He thinks of the damn care package Nate put together for them, and wonders if that dilligence and attention to details he shows in mission planning would carry on into other areas, would he be thorough and relentless in mapping out Brad's body, or would he be direct and swift, going straight for Brad's dick.

Or maybe he'd multitask, like Brad knows he can. With his hand on Brad's dick, and his mouth tasting every inch of Brad's throat and chest. He doesn't dare to imagine Nate on his knees, not because he doesn't want to, but because he's afraid he wouldn't last any longer.

He leans forward, supporting himself against the wall, working his dick faster now, imagining Nate pushed against the wall, eyes watching Brad's every move, letting Brad do whatever he wants to him.

He has to bite his lip to stop himself from moaning too loudly when he comes, suddenly hyperaware of his teammates in the other room. He rests his forehead against the cool tiles and tries to control his breathing. He doesn't know how long he stands like that, but he doesn't move until he hears banging on the bathroom door.

"Motherfucking Brad, if there's no hot water left, I swear to God I will do unspeakable things to you when you get out of there!"

And just like that, Brad's Iceman again, the fantasy Nate tucked away behind mission planning and more immediate violent thoughts towards Brad's RTO.

"For fuck's sake, can't I have just a moment to myself?" he yells and reaches for the soap, making a quick work of it, washing his hair with the shampoo from the dispenser. It smells strangely, but better than the sewers. He turns the water off and reaches for the towel. It's the only one, but he doesn't feel any guilt over taking it, he did call dibs.

"I'm out, cool the fuck down," he tells Ray as he walks out of the bathroom. Ray gives him a dark look, then raises his hand, in which he's holding a motherfucking can of a motherfcucking coke. Brad hates coke, but damn, he missed it.

"And fucking Skittles, too," Ray offers happily. Poke is busy eating a Mars bar, wearing a shit-eating grin that is very appropriate, considering. "How's the water?" Ray asks.

Brad actually smiles. "Go, check for yourself. Don't jack off in the shower," he adds, because plausible deniability is your best friend at times.

"Fuck that, there's a world of pay-per-view porn waiting for me when I get back."

"Yes, I'm sure Nate will be pleased to hear he could contribute to the fund of your jacking off," Poke mutters.

Brad's surprised by the sudden surge of anger when he hears Poke reffering to Nate by his first name. For a very long time, even after Nate stopped being the LT and became the Captain, nobody reffered to Nate by his first name. And it wasn't that after D-Day their ranks weren't mostly for show, to establish who's in charge, while they were fighting for survival, and after that they kept on using them, clinging to the familiar. It was something exclusively Brad's... and he apparently joined his teammates in the land of teenage fucking girls.

"And here I had a chance to pick Trombley for this mission," Brad says reaching for the Skittles.

"Trombley? You'd pick fucking Trombley over your dear pal Ray-Ray?! I don't believe this! And I got you fucking Skittles! See if I do that next time!" Ray throws his hands in the air and shuts the bathroom door. "Fucking Trombley," can be heard despite the barier.

Brad smirks and loooks at Poke, only to see a matching expression on his face.

"You shouldn't bait him like that, dog," says Poke. "One of these days he'll forget how much he fucking worships the ground you walk on, and you'll wake up with a dead fucking bird on your pillow. Or worse."

"That's actually how he shows affection, not scorn," Brad explains and goes through the twenty bucks worth of junk food Ray brought in, fishing out the coke can he abandoned. It's freezer-cold. Brad fucking misses freezers. He opens the can and downs the whole thing.

"You know, Brad, it would be good for morale if we got some beer. When was the last time you had a fucking decent beer?"

Brad shrugs. "My last leave with the Royal Marines. American beer equated to weak piss after that one, beer's the one thing the Brits know how to do," he offers absently.

To be honest, it probably wouldn't hurt if they went out and unwinded for the night. Would stop Ray from bitching and whining, too. It's too late to go and meet the guy about the IDs, and recon can wait till tomorrow. Thanks to the fucking time travel, they actually have some time.

"Ray, hurry up there," Brad yells. "Poke needs to powder his nose too, because we're going out."

It doesn't get the immediate reaction Brad hopes for, probably because Ray must suspect some sort of a joke or something. True, it wouldn't be beneath Brad to toy with Person like that. But with every second beer sounds more and more appealing.

In the end, it takes them another hour before they leave, as Poke refuses to go without a shower of his own. On one hand, Brad can understand that. But on the other, it means he's stuck with an excited Ray, talking about beer and pussy and beer, and can they spend more money and get some import shit? And just when Brad's ready to kill him painfully and slowly, Poke joins them all clean and fucking happy and they leave.

They don't have any difficulties finding a bar in the neighbourhood, an advantage of living in a hotel that has an option of charging by the hour. But the bar itself is something of a surprise. Instead of a seedy interior, perfect for the less respectable patrons, they see a nice place with pool tables, dancefloor and several tables in strategic places. And most importantly a bar, with a lot of bottles and a tap. Brad feels a smile spreading across his face and doesn't even attempt to hide it. Alcohol. The kind that hadn't been distilled underground by fucking QTip.

"This is fucking heaven, isn't it?" Ray asks with awe, blinking a few times. It takes him a good moment to speak again, which really indicates his state of mind, it takes a fucking lot to keep Ray Person quiet for five seconds. "That contraption Walt and Jason built has actually killed us, and now we're fucking dead and we're achieving a fucking nirvana."

Brad shakes his head. "Even if I believed in any kind of heaven, I doubt it would have you," he points out. "Let's get a table, shall we? You're making a spectacle out of yourself and people are starting to notice. Either charge them or sit the fuck down."

Ray sits the fuck down. They get lucky with the table, a group of girls is just leaving and Brad smiles perfunctorily at them when they nod their heads that yes, indeed the table would now be free, and they all smile back, even at Ray.

"I love this place," Ray says. "But you know what I would love even more? Beer. I've been promised a fucking beer, Brad."

"Don't get your panties in a twist," Brad rolls his eyes and stands up again, making his way towards the bar. There's a few people sitting at the counter, but it's not really crowded, and Brad has no trouble with catching the bartender's eye. She takes his order and starts the tap, and Brad waits patiently, absently looking around, catching bits of conversations. They must be close to the campus, because there seems to be a lot of students here. Not only students, though, and Brad and the rest don't quite stick out. A good thing.

"Here you are," the bartender says, smiling at him. He thanks her and leaves an adequate tip, taking the tray on which she placed three beers and a bowl of peanuts, because Brad knows how to shut Ray up for a few minutes.

Someone bumps into Brad's elbow as he moves to stand up, following up with a bashful "Excuse me," and Brad freezes, because he's either having auditory hallucinations, or he knows this voice.

Nate.

The time travel had to fuck up his brain, because this isn't happening. Brad turns around to see who the voice belongs to and he catches the glimpse of...

Nate looks at him and smiles apologetically, before continuing on his way. Brad knows he looks like a fucking retard just standing there, but it takes him a second to reboot his brain.

When he gets back to their table he still can't find the words to describe what just happened.

"Shit, dog, you look like you've seen a ghost," there's concern in Poke's voice that makes Brad look up.

"You're not going to believe me if I tell you," because Brad saw the man and he still can't believe it.

"Aww Brad, did you see Elvis? Or a unicorn?" Ray jokes, taking a sip of his beer. "I remember the world before D-Day was full of fucking rainbows and unicorns and whipped cream. Or maybe that was just a movie Walt made me watch..."

Brad ignores him and downs half of his beer. He needs a lot of alcohol right now. After that, he turns around and seeks out Nate, and he's there, sitting with three other people. Not a hallucination then. He shakes his head.

"I just bumped into our fucking Captain," he says quietly, forcing himself to take his eyes off Nate and his friends.

"What, he time travelled after us?" Ray shakes his head. "It's like he doesn't trust us."

"No. He's not..." Brad stops and licks his lips, mulling over this. "He's there," he says finally, quietly, nodding in Nate's direction.

Ray actually raises in his seat to see. Poke at least is more discreet, just turns his head. Doesn't matter, Nate wouldn't notice anyway, he's laughing at something a pretty brunette girl said to him, his eyes are closed and his head is thrown back.

His hair is longer than Brad had even seen, he notes absently, using the moment to take everything in, catalogue every detail, all but count the fucking freckles on Nate's nose. He looks so damn young, and careless, as he reaches out for his glass and takes a sip, still smiling at the girl next to him who's talking animatedly.

"Holy fucking shit on a cracker," Ray says, a bit too loud. It gets him one or two looks, but everyone turns away just as quickly. "It's Nate."

Ray Person, ladies and gentlemen, king of the fucking obvious.

"What does it mean?" Poke asks seriously, looking back at Brad. "If he's here..."

"He's not to be involved," Brad says quickly. "He's a civillian, we don't engage. We're not supposed to change anything, and that would probably be changing a whole lotta shit."

He should tell them they're leaving right now, get the fuck out as fast as possible. But he can't quite tear his eyes away from Nate.

"He's a fucking jailbait," whispers Ray with an unhealthy amount of fascination. "Fuck. Me. Just watching him makes me feel like a fucking pedo..."

Brad sighs and transfers his gaze from Nate, who's leaning forward, clearly explaining something to his friends, to Ray. He hopes his glare is threatening enough.

"May I remind you that time travel or not, this is our Commanding Officer and he deserves our respect?"

"You just want him for yourself," Ray mutters into his beer. "But fuck, if he doesn't have good taste in pussy. Look at these two hotties."

Brad closes his eyes and prays for some patience. He needs Ray for this mission, though he may start planning for just Poke and himself. Because if Ray keeps up with comments about Nate... Brad might be forced to kill Ray.

"It's like a trainwreck. I know I shouldn't watch, but I can't fucking look away," he hears Poke and he knows exactly how the other man feels, because the moment he opens his eyes again, he immediately returns to watching Nate.

Nate's younger than Brad had ever seen him. A quick calculation in Brad's head tells him Nate should be about twenty, explaining what he's doing in a students' bar close to Dartmouth. They should have figured it out before, planned for that eventuality. Nate, Brad's Nate, should have warned them.

It's like a sucker-punch, when he thinks of his Nate, who isn't quite his and never will be, and compare him with the kid Brad sees now, the kid who is happy and free of the weight on his shoulders, who hadn't yet been broken a dozen times over by the clusterfuck of their time in Iraq and by everything that came after that.

Brad's desperate to see more. He mentally wills one of Nate's friends to say something funny or ridiculous again, just so he can see Nate smile, hear the laughter carry over to their table. He wants this so badly he can taste it, wants Nate, even though this kid isn't his Nate, not yet.

"Easy, there," Poke tells him not unkindly, but as if he realised more than Brad wants him to. He glances at Poke, but he doesn't see any mockery there, just a friendly face. He nods, letting Poke know he received the message loud and clear. Even though he doesn't know, or doesn't want to know, what the message exactly is.

"We should change venues," he suggests. "We don't want to tempt fate."

"Brad, come on, don't take this away from me," Ray looks at what Brad supposes is Person's idea of puppy eyes. "This is priceless, I want to remember as much as possible to be able to tell Walt all about how our fearless leader was in fact a tree-loving liberal wimp before he met us and we made a man out of him."

"Do you want to go over there and ask him to sign your fucking napkin, too?" Brad asks him without even attempting to hide his irritation. "And that wasn't a suggestion, Person. This isn't up for discussion. We're leaving and we're leaving now."

His tone doesn't allow for any discussion and even though Ray pouts, fucking pouts like a tween, he finishes his beer and stands up like a good boy.

Brad moves to stand up too, glancing once more in Nate's direction as he does so, and what he sees makes him freeze. While Brad was arguing with Person, the mood has apparently been shifting the fuck up over at Nate's table, everyone is standing up as well, Nate stepping in between the pretty brunette, who is now wearing a fierce scowl in place of her smile, and a rather drunk and quite angry guy.

There's a small crowd around them too, the other two of Nate's friends two steps away already, the guy frozen in the moment of putting on his jacket and the other girl looking worried, holding up her cellphone uncertainly, as if debating if calling the police would be a good idea or not.

"Fuck," Brad says, pouring a lot into that one word.

"Not getting involved, eh?" Poke says dryly, but he's already a step towards Nate's table, where the drunk guy and his drunk friends are getting angrier by the minute.

"Fuck this, it's Fick," Ray says, and that's the thing. They can't stand idly by and they can't leave.

Brad really hates his fucking life.

They will just make sure Nate doesn't get the shit beaten out of him. Not getting involved unless completely necessary. That's what Brad keeps repeating in his head. A mantra that helps him control himself and not rip the drunk guy's head off. He moves towards the crowd, not bothering to check if Ray and Poke follow. He knows they do, even if it's only because of their training.

And why the fuck Nate is just standing there right in front of the guy? Does he have a deathwish or something? Fuck, it's like he wants Brad to worry or worse, to interfere.

They get there just in time, too. The fucking retard moves to punch Nate, Brad's Nate, and Brad can tell Nate won't be able to duck. His hand moves before he can even process the situation, thank fuck for the Corps training.

He catches the fucker's fist and squeezes, feeling extremely satisfied at the grimace of pain he sees.

"Do we have a problem here, gentlemen?" he asks calmly, allowing his Iceman persona to shine, knowing well that behind him Ray and Poke are doing their best to scare the living shit out of this fucking retard.

"He's one big walking problem," the brunette mutters from behind Nate, but Brad has to strain to hear her, the words whispered under her breath, so he doesn't think the retard heard her.

The retard is looking up at Brad, as most people have to, quickly reassessing the situation. He's drunk enough to be cocky and obnoxious, but not drunk enough to be suicidal. He glances to the side, at his friends, gauging their chances.

"Ryan, why don't you walk it off?" Nate says, almost conversationally. Brad knows this tone too well, this is Nate holding back anger, but he sounds pleasant and friendly enough, not antagonising anyone. "I'm sure things would look much clearer in the morning."

The brunette snorts behind Nate. Brad thinks he likes her.

Ryan's posture relaxes minutely, and he slowly lowers his hand. Brad lets him, but not before he gives his fist a final squeeze, a reminder not to do anything stupid.

The situation seems to be under control, but Brad is still tense. He can tell that both Poke and Ray are still on high alert. They won't relax until Ryan and the rest of his retard friends leave the bar. Brad has a weird feeling they will be checking out the nearest alleys just to make sure the fucktards don't stay behind to ambush Nate and his friends...

He watches the men walk away, glaring at them every time they look back, making sure they are intimidated nicely. He wants to order Poke and Ray to get out of here when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He turns to scowl at the person and freezes. It's Nate. Smiling at him.

"Thanks," Nate says. There's probably more, but Brad is distracted by the warmth on his shoulder. Still firmly in the land of teenage girls, God, he is so pathetic Ray will probably remind him of this moment until the day they die.

"Don't mention it," he mutters, and he really means it. Don't mention it, don't say another word, nothing to weaken Brad's resolve to get the fuck out of there as soon as possible, hopefully ten minutes ago.

Nate hesitates, the slight flicker of his eyes to the left before he looks up at Brad again.

"Just buy him a drink," the girl behind him says, the nervous edge gone, smiling widely now. "We should buy you guys drinks, I think this is the customary expression of gratitude."

"Customary expression of gratitude?" the other girl shakes her head. "Sociology 101 is really getting to you, Angie."

"She's right, though," Nate nods firmly, his gaze still on Brad, and it's a little more than Brad can take right now.

"Thanks, but we were already on our way out."

"Come on, Brad, we can..." Ray starts and stops immediately when Brad turns to glare at him. "Oh, right, I forgot. We have no time whatsoever, we have very important things to do. Time-sensitive things," he adds.

Brad is going to dismember him. Slowly.

Just to make himself feel better. An entertainment he knows he's going to need. Especially since there's disappontment written all over Nate's face. Brad prays for strength, he prayed more since travelling back in time than during the entire post D-Day war. He doesn't want to go. He wants to stay and get to know this Nate, find all the ways he's different from Brad's Nate. And all the things he has in common with his future self.

It would be like the perfect recon mission.

"Stay out of trouble," he tells them, but looks only at Nate. The 'because I might not be around to keep you safe the next time' goes unsaid. Brad knows that his CO would hear it nonetheless and he wonders if this Nate can tell too.

There's something in Nate's eyes Brad can't name and he looks away. Better for everybody this way. He looks back and motions towards the door. Time to leave.

"Holy fuck," Ray says the moment they get outside, a fraction of a second before the cool night air hits Brad. He didn't even realise it was so warm inside, or maybe it was his skin flushing under Nate's gaze, who the fuck knows. "Holy fuck. This was a baby fucking LT, before he even was the LT. It's like watching a baby unicorn learn how to walk. This is some good shit. And have you seen that girl? Fuck, I didn't even know he had a girlfriend before the Iraq clusterfuck. What the fuck, Brad?"

Poke rolls his eyes. "Shut up, Ray, or I'll shut you up. Brad, are we okay?" he asks, and it takes Brad a few more seconds than it should to get what he's really saying.

Time to get over himself and find his balls, because this shit is ridiculous. "Yeah. I don't think we could change much by stopping one bar brawl in making. Nate'll forget about it in a few days, and we can concentrate on the mission at hand."

"Copy that," Espera nods, still watching Brad.

"I could have taken pictures. Sold them for some booze and a few good joints back home," Ray rants quitely, which in Ray's world translates into a tone that can be heard only for a mile or so. "Have you seen the lips on him? We all thought he looked indecent back when we met him, but holy fuck, Brad."

"Ray, I will say it only once," Brad says calmly, though he can feel his hands curling into fists. "If you don't stop those derogatory comments about our future Commanding Officer I will be forced to teach you some respect and you might not be able to survive it with all parts still attached to your body. He is not some ten dollar hooker you can pick up in Thailand."

"I don't know what's wrong with you, Brad. Time travel must've bring out your PMS. I swear you were more fun when we were fighting for survival..." Ray pouts, but thankfully he doesn't continue with the comments.

Brad pointedly ignores Poke's stares.

Ray starts on a new rant about forty seconds later, this time about the porn mags he could buy and whether they would carry through back to the future, and whether he could buy some dvds and upload them into the Mainframe, infecting it with some German s/m porn. His theory is, as far as Brad can follow, that it would either destroy the Mainframe, or occupy it for long enough for them to blow it up. Brad drowns out most of the spiel, he's had some practice.

Back in the hotel, Ray seems to forget his own tirade as he rediscovers television, but he drops off somewhere in the middle of an old Love Boat rerun, and falls asleep, dead to the world on the middle bed, the one with the best view of the tv.

Brad turns the sound down, but he leaves the tv on as he strips off his clothes and gets under his covers. The bed is softer than he's used to, too soft, which really says a lot, considering the standards in this hotel, but he's too tired to care.

"Fucking beds," Poke mutters into his pillow, apparently having the same problem, but this is the last thing Brad hears from either one of them, and the quiet tones of Vicky the Captain's daughter are what lulls him to sleep.

It's better than thinking about other things, the constant replay of the day's events, of Nate's eyes on him. Brad doesn't think of that at all.

When he wakes up the next morning, it takes him a moment to orient himself. Usually, he knows immediately where he is and what needs to be done. A by product of his training and living in a war zone for the last several years. But now, he slowly drifts into conciousness, vaguely aware of a warm bed and clean sheets around him. There's a memory of Nate too, touching his shoulder, smiling up.

That makes him open his eyes and sit up on the bed, as the memories of the previous day come back to him. Fucking time travel, young and innocent COs and assassination plans of Ray. He groans and rubs his face, trying to push the last remains of sleep away.

He thought he was ready for any kind of a mission. He was fucking wrong. No training could prepare him for this.

"Poke, Ray, get your asses up. We have a long day ahead of us," he says and drags himself to the bathroom. Cold shower, that's what he needs right now. A long, cold shower that would get him back into the right state of mind.

It's fucking depressing that he has all that warm water at his disposal and he's going to have a cold shower, but that's what he needs right now. And some fucking substantial breakfast, which means either grocery shopping, or finding a diner someplace nearby. Or, well, a fucking campus cafeteria, once they get the IDs.

He makes plans as the cold water hits him, waking him up instantly with a familiar sting. But there are luxuries to be had, too, soap and shampoo and fucking toothpaste. They've run out of toothpaste two months ago, and this has been a fucking tragedy. Brad plans to stock up.

They probably won't avoid grocery shopping, as much as Brad finds the idea of going to a supermarket really surreal. Some shaving cream wouldn't go amiss, and Brad really liked the idea of buying the good kind of toilet paper, the soft but strong kind. He takes his shitting seriously, and a quality toilet paper is not something to pass up on.

"Hurry up," he tells Poke as they pass each other in the bathroom's doors. "Lots of things to do," he says and kicks Ray's bed, shaking it a little. Ray mumbles into his pillow something that sounds like 'fuck off, five more minutes, it's not even a school day'. "Rise and shine, Person."

"You go and fucking shine your ass," Ray mutters as he slowly sit up. "I can fucking sleep in, we're in the fucking past and we don't need to be in any fucking hurry for the next ten fucking years."

"Fine, sleep in, then," Brad tells him and moves away. He tries not to smirk when Ray stares at him suspiciously. "But if you're not ready to leave in the next twenty minutes we're leaving without you and you'll have to find some chow on your own. With no money as we're taking it all with us."

"I hate you, Brad. I fucking hate you," Ray tells him, his tone unhappy and very close to whining.

"You can hate me on the move."

"Don't think I won't, I have some fucking practice. Miles and Iraqi miles of hating you. And years. And now I get extra special bonus fucking years to hate you," he bitches while he finds his pants he didn't bother to fold last night. Then he looks up at Brad, more serious than he was at any point of the last few days. "You okay, homes? You know I didn't mean any of that shit yesterday."

"You meant every word," Brad tells him.

"I meant every word," Ray agrees with a shrug. "But it's the Captain, and it's like the best fucking thing about the whole time travel bullshit. Stories we'll tell our children. Well, stories we'll tell Poke's children, because we're probably not spawning any time soon."

"In your case, that's a blessing," he nods.

"But it's the Captain," Ray repeats, as if Brad didn't know that. "And I know how you get about him."

Brad's half-tempted to tell Ray he knows shit, but that's not true, Ray knows him better than almost anyone. "Just get your shit together, we're oscar mike in five mikes," he says instead. But he nods at Ray and sees Ray grin in return and they both know all's fine between them again.

Poke joins then all fresh and clean with a fucking smile so wide it would probably power up half of the headquaters. "I fucking love this time travel business. Even the soap from the dispenser smells like fucking daisies. We need to stock up on this, Gina will love me forever if I bring it back."

"Jesus, Poke. For a bad ass motherfucker, you're on such a tight leash it's a wonder it extends back in time..."

Brad just snorts at Ray's antics. "Alright kids, let's move out. We need to meet the guy about our brand new IDs and hopefully do some recon before we come up with a plan."

They stop by the front desk, where they extend their stay for the next day, and then they're on the move, in the fucking sunlight, among joggers and people walking their dogs. An elderly couple passes them, holding hands, and Brad just shakes his head.

It's a little bit like coming back from Iraq, the first time, when he was still surprised at cars that weren't humvees and kids that were cheerfully skating on the sidewalks and not running after them in the hope of getting a humrat, or a bottle of water. It's a little bit like that, but a lot stranger, a lot worse.

He thinks how many of those people will survive the D-Day and knows that quite probably not many of them, quite probably no one. It's a cold thought, but he knew what he was signing up for when Nate explained the mission, knew it would be like this. But knowing and seeing this is different.

"Bacon," Poke says suddenly, out of the blue.

"Bacon to you too," Brad tells him. "And also, what the fuck?"

"I'm hungry. I want some bacon. And pancakes. And an insanely large cup of fucking november juliet, and I want it now," Poke says matter-of-factly, pointing his thumb at a diner they've almost passed by. The board in front of it claims that they're serving apple pie as today's special.

Fucking apple pie. Brad shakes his head. "Fine."

They go in and Brad's surprised they manage to find an empty booth. They're serving fucking apple pie and people aren't piling up to get some. Then he remembers that none of the people here had ever worried about going without a meal for three days because some fucking retard contaminated their MREs.

They settle down and look around, taking in the clean interior. Ray's mouth hanging open, but Brad will take that over the uncensored commentary on the hotness of the waitress. Brad doesn't want to be thrown out just yet. He has to taste that apple pie first. And maybe Poke's right, bacon needs investigating too.

The waitress quickly shows up, all smiles and ready to take their orders. And while Poke and Brad manage to behave like normal human beings, ordering obscene amounts of bacon, eggs and pie, Person just stares at the girl as if she's the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. It's creepy, but Brad supposes it's a compliment from Ray. Not many people can render him speachless.

Of course, it's been a very long while since a girl in knee-high socks brought Ray some pancakes, he supposes, so some brain damage is unavoidable and hopefully permanent.

"And for your silent but cute friend?" the waitress asks after a moment, when it doesn't look like Ray's gonna speak up any time soon.

"Same thing," Brad decides quickly. "But no coffee," he adds, and that seems to shake Ray right out of his stupor.

"Fuck no coffee," he says. "I haven't had a decent cup of coffee in forever, and I'm going to get me a cup of that, and then I'm going to get me another cup of that, and then I'm going to get me a whole fucking pot of that and I'm going to swim in it, splashing around like that fucking filthy rich duck fucker in the comics."

The waitress stares at him for a long moment, and then giggles, downright fucking giggles, as if Ray was the most adorable thing she had seen this week. "Decaf, then?" she asks him and Ray gives her a look, and then smirks when he catches her smile.

Brad doesn't even know what the fuck's going on, the rabbit hole shit is getting stranger and stranger by the minute.

"Coming right up," the waitress says, smiling even wider, and sashays the fuck away.

"I'm gonna come back here later," Ray mutters. "Without you cockblockers, and I'm gonna hit that."

"She is obviously insane, so she might let you," Brad mutters a reply, careful so that the waitress can't hear him. There is something wrong with a woman when she expresses interest in a whiskey tango retard with no mental filter between what passes for his brain and his mouth.

And as long as Person uses protection Brad doesn't care what sort of time traveling diseases he passes onto unsuspecting females. What's important is that Ray doesn't leave any spawns behind him. There's already too much Person DNA in the world.

"Fuck, as long as I get my bacon, I don't care what you do after hours," Poke joins in. It's good to know the man's priorities remain the same.

Their food arrives quickly, and Brad firmly ignores more flirting between Ray and the waitress. There's only that many traumatic events he can witness and not fall apart.

He pointedly doesn't register that Ray gets her number, and concentrates on his food instead. There's bacon. He needs to have a moment contemplating just that, and the eggs, and the pancakes, and the fucking apple pie. The coffee is probably just decent by the standards of anyone who hadn't been through a fucking robot apocalypse, in which, that one time, an espresso maker tried to kill fucking Trombley.

As seen and tasted from that unique point of view, the coffee is fucking divine.

"I could get used to this," Poke says, all but inhaling his pie. "Fair warning, when we get back, I'm staging an insurgency and taking over the time travel tech and whisking Gina and the kids back here."

Brad nods at him. "Let me know how that works out for you."

As they gather their things, Brad leaves the money on the table, together with a generous tip. He figures their waitress might need it for psychiatric help, considering.

He rechecks the address Nate wrote for them, even though he knows it already. It's relatively close, which is just a further testament of how well Nate thought this through.

"What the fuck is this place?" Ray mutters when they get inside, looking around. It's a shop, of some kind, Brad supposes, but the paraphenalia on the shelves and walls are downright disturbing.

"It's called Wicca. New Age, magic and being zen. It's about a peaceful approach to life and being in perfect balance with the world," explains the clerk who walks in from the backroom. And if the explanation wasn't delivered in a bored, almost angry tone, Brad would probably buy it. Or not. He's not exactly fan of all the treehugging, crack-smoking bullshit.

The girl herself looks disturbing. With black hair, black clothes, so much silver jewelry she probably robbed a bank just to get it and makeup so strong she could pretend to be a racoon and nobody would probably see a fucking difference. Kids these days.

"We're looking for Alex Stokes?" he says carefully, no need to anger the natives just yet. "We were told he might be able to supply us with... certain items," Brad chooses his words carefully, painfully aware that this whole ID business in't exactly legal. Which is a shame. Their lives would be so much easier if that Stokes guy just advertised on the Internet.

"I'm Alex," the girl tells him and Brad thinks that he's going to give Nate a piece of his mind when they get back. From all the moments to pull an elaborate prank... but this is where Nate sent them, so this must be solid, he thinks.

The girl leans over the counter, propping herself up on her elbows. Her expression goes from bored to assessing, and Brad has to revise at least part of his opinion on her; she's older than he initially pegged her, at least nearing thirty, but the makeup is confusing him the fuck up. He wonders if she does her eyes with coal.

"Ex-military?" she asks finally, then takes in Brad's carefully schooled down expression. "Yeah, thought so. Come on, step into my parlour," she adds, pushing herself away from the counter, heading back out to the back room. "Come on," she tosses over her shoulder when they don't move.

"That voodoo doll is looking at me. It looks like a haji I once shot," Ray tells him in a scenic whisper. Brad rolls his eyes and follows Alex.

The backroom is thankfully empty of whatever shit they're selling in the shop; there are a few unpacked boxes, but nothing that smells like incense, which is a fucking improvement. "So, what do you need?" Alex asks, business-like now. At Brad's look, which might come off as a tad suspicious, she shakes her head. "Cool the fuck down, sailor, I'm not actually an idiot. I dress how I like, but I know my business. Or do you want to see my MSc diploma?"

"Marine," Brad tells her. "For the record."

She nods, smiling slightly. "I don't think I hate you. That's a novel concept. So, what do you need?"

"Walt," Ray answers without even thinking. Brad closes his eyes for a brief second, sometimes the retardation of it all is killing him.

"Please ignore him, he was dropped on his head repeatedly ever since he was a child. We were told you could provide us with IDs?" stating it so openly makes Brad feel uneasy.

"Really?" the girl deadpans. "So you're not interested in our premium package containing Wicca for Beginners and Herbal Remedies for Samhain?"

Brad frowns, there's something he's missing. "We might be?"

"If they are accomplanied with three IDs made to Brad Colbert, Tony Espera and Ray Person," Poke finishes stepping forward.

Alex smiles at that and writes the names down. "Great, glad we're on the same page." She waves at them to move further into the room. "Alright boys, let's immortalize your faces."

"I would have shaved if I knew there'll be photos taken," Ray offers. "The same thing always happens to me, ever since junior high."

"I thought you were thrown out on your ass from kindergarten and never finished your education," Brad says while Alex picks up a camera.

"Sit down, gentlemen. Especially you," she tells Brad, looking up at him. "I can see why you'd need a fake ID, no one believes you're human."

"That's exactly it," Ray agrees.

She takes the photos and looks at Brad quizzically. "I assume you want to be over 21? Any special requests?"

He's tempted not to dignify that with an answer, but Poke's faster. "Can you have them done today?"

"Will cost you an extra two hundred, but yes, I can," she nods. "Pick them up in six hours," she tells them and makes a shooing gesture with her hands. "Feel free to browse on your way out. We have special two-for-one offer on crystal balls."

"I have..." Ray starts but Brad swats him on the back.

"We don't want to hear about your balls, Ray," he says long-sufferingly. They really don't. "We'll come back later," he tells the girl and practically drags Ray out. Why does the best RTO in the business and possibly (but not necessarily) Brad's best friend has to come with no tact and fucked up remarks?

"Alright, dog. We're set with the IDs, what next?"

Brad checks the time and looks around, trying to come up with the best action plan.

"We should do what we were fucking trained to do," he says. "We're Recon Marines, let's go and fucking recon. We need the layout of the place and all the security details."

"It's a fucking commie school for liberal dick sucks, Brad. What kind of security can they have? We could probably fuck them up the ass and play country music all night and they wouldn't know what hit them."

"Then again, that commie school is teaching our CO how to take over the world. Brad might have a point about that recon."

"Thank you, Sergeant Espera," Brad nods benevolently, ignoring the fact that now apparently he feels something uncoil in his stomach at the mere mention of Nate. Either time travel fucked up his brain more than he thought it would, or seeing the younger version of Nate brought home the long-time coming point.

"Fick said bioengineering lab will have the research the Mainframe is after. We need to get the layout of the place and the security measures, find the best entrance point. How hard can it be to get into a fucking university lab?"

"Probably harder than we'd like to, considering we're under orders not to fuck up our own timeline," Brad shrugs. "I have a newfound sympathy for fucking Marty McFly, and I always hated the guy."

Some things are easier to get than others. Maps of the place are sold in the fucking gift shop. Poke spends seven minutes chatting with the woman behind the counter, pretending his daughter thinks of applying.

Elena Espera is fifteen, she should be thinking of colleges soon. This hits a little too close to home, and even Ray doesn't dare to run his mouth off on that.

"Bioengineering has a new security system in place, installed three months ago. It's top of the line, bought thanks to a former alumn who really should know better and blow it all on booze and hookers," Poke bitches. "The inner labs are only open to those who paritcipate in or carry out research. And I don't think those are locks we can manage to pick without drawing attention."

"What do they need all that security for? You'd think they're developing a tech that could change the fate of the entire fucking world," Ray's distaste is obvious in his voice. Brad just nods. This, exactly this, was the reason why he insisted on fucking initial recon.

"We should probably go and orient the fucking map, get the feel for the place," Poke suggests and Brad nods. Scouting the place during the day, with people around, would limit any mistakes during the actual mission. And they had fucking orders to make it as smooth as possible.

"Hey! Guys!" All three of them freeze at the familiar voice. Brad closes his eyes for a second, not afraid to admit to himself that he is not fucking ready for this again.

When he turns towards the voice, he's a perfect example of cool and composed.

Nate jogs towards them with a slight smile. "I've been wondering if I'd see you guys again. Angela insists we owe you a round of drinks, and we take our debts very seriously."

"You don't say," Ray mutters under his breath, which is much better than his usual technique of communication, but Poke elbows him nonetheless.

"Are you new here?" Nate presses, friendly and casual, hands stuffed inside his pockets. Brad wants to point out that they're a little too old for this shit, but he has seen people their age around campus, and apparently it's true, you're never too old to go back to school.

"Yes," he finds himself saying, watching Nate's face light up in a smile. "Well, sort of. We're getting the feel for the place, mostly," he says, keeping it vague on purpose.

Nate's expression flickers through curious to thoughtful to decisive and he nods, allowing Brad to get away with that. Nate is looking straight at him, and something like an understanding passes between them, warm and strange like a deja vu that resonates deep in his bones, courses through his veins.

"Want a guide to show you around?" Nate asks.

It's a bad idea, but it's also the best offer Brad had in years, or something close to that, and he nods slowly, mesmerised by Nate's answering smile.

'What the fuck,' Poke mouths at him but Brad just shrugs. Yes, he's well aware of the potential to fuck this up, but it's Nate, and Nate never fucked them over, and Brad trusts him even if he isn't Brad's Nate yet.

He tries not to think about the judgemental expression on Person's face. Ray has no fucking right to be judging Brad. He is just doing what's best for the fucking mission. Fuck.

"Is there anything you wanted to see?" Nate asks, oblivious to Brad's inner struggle for control and the awkward silence. None of them really knows how to handle this Nate.

"We heard you have a state of the art new lab?" Brad says, though this somehow ends up being a question. It feels wrong to be using Nate like that. They should be fucking doing this on their own, letting Nate have his fucking life and not get involved. If Brad was alone right now, he would beat the fuck out of himself.

"We do," Nate smiles. Fucking smiles and Brad suddenly doesn't know what to do with himself. Someone should tell this Nate that it's a fucking criminal offense to smile so carefree and innocent. Fucking hell, get a grip on yourself, Colbert, he thinks frantically. "Susan, you've met Susan yesterday at the bar," Nate continues, like Brad isn't having a nervous breakdown right in front of him, "she's doing her research there and she's always talking about the high tech they have due to the last grant. I mean if it's your thing, I bet it's really impressive. I'm a Classics major myself."

"What is this, I don't even," Ray says, shaking his head. Nate glances at him, curious, and Brad glares at Ray, who quickly shrugs. "I mean, there will be time to geek out over the tech, Brad, I thought we were going to do something fun tonight," he puts on a convincing whine, which isn't such a stretch for Ray.

"Forgive my friend, he gets cranky when he doesn't get fed. That's why they don't often let him out of the zoo," Brad explains.

"Then how about I buy you lunch instead of the drinks?" Nate offers, waving his hand in the general direction of one of the buildings, probably the cafeteria.

"Ray eats a lot. Wouldn't want to bankrupt you."

"Don't say no to free food, Brad," Ray coaches him, shaking his head.

"It's settled, then," Nate says, turning and expecting them to follow him, and the thing is, although Nate doesn't know that, they would follow him, everywhere and anywhere. It's ingrained deep in Brad's bones, and he thinks that on some scale, so's the case with Ray and Poke. Nate might just as well have given them an order.

"Besides," Poke says, from the corner of his mouth as he moves closer to Brad. "We'd be spending his money anyway," he says with a sly smile, and Brad shakes his head, amused despite himself.

It's surreal, following Nate to the campus cafeteria, trying to act like it's not disturbing. He watches Ray shove as much food at his plate as possible. He finds it fascinating in a way, especially since he doubts he will be able to even swallow the coke he picked for himself.

And if Poke doesn't fucking stop glancing his way, Nate will see his very first corpse within the next few minutes.

When everybody gets their food, Nate leads them to a free table. It's not awkward at all. Fuck, they faced Hajis, killer machines hunting them down and fucking time travel. And they can act like having lunch with a jailbait of their commanding officer is something natural.

They watch Person stuff his face for a while, Brad glancing at Nate every now and then, taking in the surprise at Ray's table manners, or lack of thereof.

"Fuck, Person, try to remember there are actual people around and you should at least pretend you dined with someone else apart from pigs," Brad rubs the back of his neck, wondering why the fuck is he embarassed by Ray. It's not like he gives a fuck what people think about him and his friends.

But when Nate laughs, Brad smiles in return. Maybe this isn't all that bad.

"Fuck off, Brad," Ray says, his mouth half-full of half-chewed pizza slice. "If Nate doesn't give a fuck about my table manners, then maybe you could get off your fucking high horse and get over it, not all of us were raised in a fucking WASP household, with silver spoon up our asses."

Nate glances at Brad, and there's laughter still on his lips, but there's something sharp in his gaze, too, and it sends a motherfucking shiver down Brad's spine. It's all too familiar, and Brad really can't deal with this shit.

"So, you never had a silver spoon up your ass, Ray?" Nate asks, and it sounds like a continuation of the comic routine Ray has started, but Brad has that sinking kind of feeling he gets when someone, somewhere, fucked up, and they won't see the sunset for the shit they'll be drowning in. He's just unclear on the details for now.

"We're pretty sure he had many things up his ass, but a silver spoon was not one of them," Poke says, completely deadpan, and downs his soda, looking around. "This place looks crowded. Always like that, or does it clear up from time to time?"

At least someone is thinking of getting some information.

"Depends on the day. Some people leave for the weekends, but then again, some people visit on the weekends," Nate shrugs. "Spring break is good for the peace and quiet, probably. So, Ray, have you really been raised with the pigs, or is Brad here just maligning you?"

Ray is thrilled to have this Nate on his side, and the look he throws Brad is probably meant to be victorious, but it's somewhat destroyed by that half bite of pizza hanging from Ray's mouth.

"Fuck yeah," he says to Nate, while trying to chew his food. "He's always insulting me like that, as if I wasn't the best fucking RTO in the business. Just because my mom took me to NASCAR and Brad here had to live without that great experience he's set to make my life a living hell. If he wasn't one scary motherfucker, I'd kill him in his dreams for all the mean things he said to me."

Brad sees the corner of Nate's mouth raise in a half smile, an expression Brad learned long time ago to associate with Nate's bemusement.

"He doesn't seem scary," he says and looks at Brad. They make eyecontact, and Brad, mostly out of habit, allows his face to show the shared amusement.

"Well of course you wouldn't think so," he hears Ray muttering.

"Have we established I don't know this guy?" Brad asks with a grin.

"Duly noted," Nate nods with all the pretend seriousness he can manage while still smiling. "So, which branch of the military can lay claim to the best RTO in business?" he asks, reaching to steal one of Poke's fries, and it takes Brad a moment to notice how deep in the shit they actually are, because he's a bit distracted by Nate's shirt sleeve raising with the movement, exposing the skin of his upper arm.

By the time Brad's brain reboots itself, Ray's already answering.

"I'm offended you'd take us for anyone else than Marines. That's what civillian life does with you, no sense of motherfucking appreciation. But you'll learn," he adds benevolently.

Fucking hell, Brad can practically hear Nate thinking. He can see the little steel wheels turning in his mind, working out the problem in front of him, putting the fucking pieces together. It's a fucking disaster, but in a way, Brad is impressed. They probably don't teach techniques of interrogation in the fucking Classics program at the fucking Dartmouth, and yet here's Nate, who already learned way more than he should.

The genius of this interrogation technique makes Brad forgive Ray a little for yapping all their fucking secrets. Doesn't mean he's not going to kill the man. Fucking retard.

Brad wants to risk a quick glance at Poke, but he can't take his eyes off of Nate. And the fucker watches him too, looking for any clue. Brad doesn't want to show how freaked out he is, but he's not sure how well he manages that. He never could hide things from Nate.

"I'm not sure if I'm going to learn," Nate says lightly, "but I certainly appreciate your faith in me."

"You can trust me, homes, I'm from the motherfucking future!"

Brad waits for Nate to laugh, to roll his eyes at Ray's antics and shake his head in bemusement. It never happens. Nate looks at Ray for a very long moment, long enough for Ray to realise what he just blurted out, a look of panic crossing his features.

Poke slowly puts his head in his hands.

"Ray," Brad says slowly, shaking his head. "You know that line never works, I don't care what you say about that one time it helped you to get laid," he adds. It won't work, he can see that already, but at least he's trying.

So when they can't get back to their own timeline and they get stuck in the fucking 1998 and either have to live their lives as fucking hermits or shoot themselves, he'll be able to say he at least tried.

Nate looks straight at him, serious and throughtful. It's the look he shouldn't learn for years, it's the look that he used to, that he will, share just with Brad back in Iraq, years into the future.

"Which year?" Nate asks, as if he was reading Brad's mind. "Which year are you from?"

It would be so much easier if he was asking Ray. Brad could blame it all on Person then. But right now, with Nate's eyes on him, with that expression on his face. For some reason, despite the fact that technically Nate met them the day before, there's a conviction on Nate's face that Brad will tell him the truth. Trust. Who fucking told Nate to trust perfect strangers who could fucking kill him?

There it is. Brad's oportunity to lie and tell Nate Ray was fucking with him.

"2010."

 

***

 

 _"There are men in the trees," Brad's voice carries through on the radio, almost drowned out by other voices, distant, but Nate's always been attuned to Brad and he catches it easily._

 _Shots follow, reports of contact from all the vehicles, sounds of gunfire. The smell of cordite is well familiar by now, but it's one of the triggers contributing to the adrenaline rush, even more than the sounds are._

 _Person is losing it on the radio about Baptista's Portugese, but that's how he deals with pretty much anything, a string of invectives peppered with profanity, and Nate drowns him out, concentrates on what needs to be done._

 _They're stuck and surrounded, with no room for maneuvering. "Two Three, Two Three, get up here. I need suppression fire now! Left side! Left side!" he says into the radio receiver._

 _"Hitman Two, this is Two One. We are unable to move in any direction, over," Brad's voice says a moment later, closely followed by Patrick reporting a man down._

 _This isn't happening, Nate is sure this is just a nightmare and he's going to wake up any moment now. This isn't happening, he repeats in his head as he fires into the darkness. He knows they are all going to survive this hell, he knew that even before he joined the Marines. So this has to be a dream and Pappy's team doesn't have a man down at all._

 _He can feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins. Those are his men, he led them to this moment and now they are sitting ducks here, under fire from every possible direction._

 _"Hitman Two Two, this is Hitman Two, what is your status? I say again, what is the status of your man down? Over." he yells into the radio, trying to get through all the noise. He can see himself writing a letter to one of his Marines' families, explaining how he failed them._

 _"I've been hit in the foot. Break. We'll try a tourniquet. We're returning fire."_

 _He allows this information to wash over him. The sounds around him are muted, he almost doesn't hear the gun fire and the yelling and it's as if he was outside of that entire chaos. He came to Iraq sure that no matter the shit they would have to deal with, everybody would survive. But here is Patrick, hit. And Stafford, hit. And if Nate doesn't do anything about all this shit they are in, more of his men are going to get hurt. If this continues Brad is going to get hurt._

 _"Gunny, we need to withdraw! We need to back it up the way we came from. Back it up the way we came in!" he says and doesn't recognise his own voice, like all the times he heard himself on a recording, the words strange and alien, as if they were coming from someone else._

 _But it's not that easy, it's as if all hell broke loose all around him, and Nate knows with a cold certainty that he needs to act now. "Motherfucker! Turn it around. I'll be right back!" he says and gets out of the humvee, runs towards Two Three, orders Baptista to turn around._

 _He can hear Gunny Wynn yelling at people to hold their fire and not accidentally shoot their own commander. He is absently aware that the ringing in his ears is from the bullets that cut too close, but a strange sense of dettachment washes over him. He has a task, to get them all out safety, and that's the only thing that matters._

 _The humvees start to move back, slowly and almost lazily, but surely making their way out._

 _The sick feeling inside his stomach disappears slowly, even though he knows they aren't out of the woods yet. He runs back to his vehicle, knowing Gunny Wynn won't let the platoon drive to safety without their LT._

 _When in the relative safety of his Humvee, Nate exhales slowly and doesn't even try to control his shaking hands. He orders the platoon to return to the HQ. He feels like an important part of his world just crumbled. Just because he's been once told so, doesn't mean everybody will return from Iraq, or survive what's coming. Everything can still change and if Nate wants to ensure everyone's safe return Stateside, he has to be a better platoon commander, he has to make sure his men don't take unnecessary risks._

 _He's going to bring them all back, even if it kills him._

***

Nate's silent for a long moment and Brad thinks that maybe they'll get away unscathed, maybe Nate didn't really believe him.

"Time travel in twelve years? I didn't see that one coming," Nate says finally, stealing another one of Poke's fries, and Brad just stares at him numbly.

They're sitting in a fucking campus cafeteria, Brad's legs slowly dying under him because these tables are built for midgets, a twenty-year-old Nate is stealing Poke's fucking fries, and he's discussing time travel as if it was run-of-the-mill Dartmouth lunchtime topic.

"Surprised us as well, homes," Ray says, shaking his head. "We didn't even know you..."

"Ray. Shut the fuck up," Brad says quickly. He should have clasped his hand over Ray's mouth a good half an hour ago, or better yet, left him back home and chosen Rudy instead. But his brain was already fried, mostly because of Nate. It was a wonder Brad got through the fucking OIF, or the apocalypse for that matter. Maybe it was like one of those allergies that became worse with exposure, and Brad should get the fuck away from Nate while he still could.

Problem was, he really didn't want to.

"So, what exactly did you travel in time for? I can't imagine it's for the bars and fights you stop from happening."

They look at each other, though it's mostly Poke and Ray looking at him. Brad realizes he's technically in charge and he's the one who told Nate which year they were from, but...

He sighs, feeling defeated.

"There's a piece of research we need. That's why--"

"That's why you were asking about the lab," Nate interrupts him.

Somehow, Brad would feel better if Nate wasn't able to do that so soon after meeting him. Brad's the fucking Iceman, as Ray so often tells everyone, he should be fucking difficult to read. People, this Nate included, shouldn't be able to know what he's going to say before he fucking says it.

"I'll talk to Susan, she can probably give you a tour, at least," Nate says and Brad shakes his head. Things don't work like that.

"Why?" he asks bluntly, looking Nate in the eye. "Someone sells you the line about being from the future and you volunteer to help them? That's being a really cheap date," he says, and holds back the 'sir' that tries to force its way out his lips. He needs to remember this is not his Nate, no matter how familiar his serious gaze is.

"You know me," Nate says plainly. Not a question, not at all, a flat and matter-of-fact statement, spoken in low tones and with no reproach. "I have been considering joining the Marines," he says, an almost non sequitur but not quite, because he's watching Brad's face for any clues, and even though Brad's pretty sure he didn't give anything away, Nate seems to find what he's been looking for and he nods in acknowledgment. "And you trust me enough to tell me the truth," he presses.

"Ray has a big mouth," Brad offers. "I'm just doing damage control."

"If this is damage control, you're bad at this," Nate says, shaking his head. "No, for some reason you trust me, and I'm not going to betray that trust," he says and it actually fucking hurts to see the determination on his face, the same idealism Brad saw in Iraq, even when the worst shit was going down.

"Brad," Poke says, getting his attention, and Brad breaks eye contact with Nate, suddenly aware they have been staring at each other for the better part of the conversation, lost to everything around them.

Nate nods quickly. "I think I need to be elsewhere for this conversation. I'll be right back," he offers and stands up, walking back to the counter, possibly getting more fucking fries.

He leaves and there's silence at the table. Brad takes a few seconds to watch Nate walk away before he looks at the others.

"Shit, homes, we're actually going to let him in on the mission," Ray's voice is filled with resignation that Brad feels as well. "He might be a a kid, but he's our fucking CO. We can't tell him no."

"Ray, it would be of great benefit to you to realise that if anyone in your family has had the ability to say no at any point in time, you could have avoided the numerous and crippling diseases that run down your whiskey tango inbred midget tribe." Brad allows his frustration to show by insulting Ray.

"Are you gonna say no to him, Brad?" Fucking Person and his fucking insight into Brad's weaknesses.

"...no," Brad admits and that admission causes him almost physical pain. No matter his actual age, he can't fucking say no to Nate.

"Besides, he's right," Poke says, apparently taking on the duties of the fucking voice of reason fairy. "If his friend can get us in, at least the recon part will be much easier. I know you hate relying on civilians, dog, but it's not a charge-in guns blazing situation."

"Nate's a civillian," Brad points out, and it doesn't quite come out as an insult it was intended as. He shrugs. "Well, we have already fucked up on the non-engaging the natives part, and the worst thing is, we can't even bullshit our way out of this, because our damn CO _will know_ , let's move on to unfucking this and getting back home, shall we?"

Nate nods at him, sitting back down. "And what's your verdict?" he asks, smiling slightly, and that smile sends a fucking jolt of warmth through Brad's body, reminding him precisely why this is a fucking bad idea.

"We would appreciate the help, if it's still on the offer," he says dryly, and tries to ignore the way Nate lights up, practically beaming at that.

"I'll do my best. I'll talk to Susan to get you in the lab," and just like that he's planning the mission for them. Using his personal connections to get complete strangers into one of the better secured buildings on campus. If it wasn't so surreal, Brad would be fucking impressed. "How about I let you guys know when I have something?" he raises his eyebrows and looks not only at Brad but at Poke and Ray as well.

"We're probably going to be around, but if you need to get a hold of us," Pokes scribbles something on a napkin, "we're here. Room 26."

Nate accepts the napkin with a nod.

"Don't you have classes to attend?" Brad asks suddenly, because it's slowly becoming too much for him to handle. He knows he sounds rude and tactless, but maybe if Nate is somewhere else he would be able to thing straight again.

Nate looks at him, the expression on his face unreadable. "I actually do," he says. He doesn't move for another moment, just watches Brad, until he's satisfied or whatever the fuck, and only then he nods. "Gentlemen," he says, another familiar piece digging into Brad like a shrapnel and he stands up and walks away, just like that.

"Fuck, Brad, I don't even know what to think of it," Ray says. Not knowing what to think never prevented him from talking, sadly. "But I take comfort in the fact that the Captain can't say a word about us fucking this up, because it's all his damn fault."

"All your fault, you mean? I should have cut off your tongue a few years back, back when you first started on ripped fuel and most of my daydreamings were about finally shutting you up, by any means necessary."

"What was the rest of your daydreams about? Come on, Brad, you can tell your pal Ray-Ray, he doesn't judge, not unless they're really fucked up daydreams. You didn't think of shooting dogs, right? No, that was fucking Trombley. The worst I can expect from you is skipping through the tulips, holding the LT's hand."

Poke shakes his head. "I'm getting out of here, just in case anyone calls the cops when you start screaming when Brad chokes you, I do not want to fall victim to racial profiling and spend the next twelve years waiting for the apocalypse in prison."

"Poke, you insult me by even suggesting I would be unprofessional enough to kill Person in front of witnesses. If I ever decide to end him, it will take years for the cops to find all the fucking body parts."

That somehow seems to ease the tension and they all laugh.

They stay in the cafeteria after that, if only for Poke and Ray finish their food. It gives Brad time to adjust his plans to include Nate. And by adjust, he means scrub the existing plans and come up with something completely new.

"We should check the place out tonight, after dark. We don't have NVGs, so we need to make sure we are actually stealthy like Marines should be."

"Yeah. Maybe the night recon will go better than this one," Poke mutters with a resigned smile.

There's a few things to take care of before the evening, too. It's surreal to make plans for grocery shopping, but they could use a few items, and Brad has designs on a roll of good toilet paper. "Shopping, kiddies. Then we'll have to pay Miss Stokes another visit and get the IDs," Brad adds.

"We're going to Walmart?" Ray asks, a little too excitedly. Brad looks at him.

"I'd like to let you know that while that whiskey tango retarded establishment might be the store of choice for all the dog-fucking inbred cousins of yours, I would never set a foot in such a place," he says, getting a strange look from a blonde co-ed passing them buy.

"Hey, homes, Brad's back," Ray says unenthusiastically. "I knew you were only tongue-tied around our jailbait of a CO."

"I'll buy you a muzzle," Brad promises him.

Grocery shopping with Ray Person is an interesting experience. Within seconds of Ray appearing in an aisle, the aisle is empty and they have their pick of any fucking thing. They should've used this technique back in Iraq. Sending Ray into a town and just shoot people as they try to get out, scared and traumatised by what they've experienced.

Ray's glee at the sight of porn mags makes Brad feel like a fucking soccer mom, trying to keep a leash on the kids. Thankfully Poke appears to be a grown up, though Brad doesn't say anything, in fear Poke would join Ray just to annoy Brad even more.

It's been previously established that Brad hates his life. But at least, when they visit the Wicca store, Alex Stokes has the IDs ready for them. At least one professional in this whole clusterfuck. The fact that it's a civilian irritates Brad, but he'll take what he's given. He's impressed by the quality of the IDs, after all, it's 19 fucking 98 and the technology isn't all that good, and yet, the woman is able to recreate even the smallest details. Why the fuck is she working in a voodoo shop is beyond him.

"For the ambience," she tells him, and smirks when he gives her a look, as if she was saying got you, fucker. "We appreciate your business," she says formally, when he hands her the carefully counted out dollar bills. "Come back soon," she adds, grave tone indicating that she has heard a cheerful disposition helps in the customer service industries but she thought it was bullshit.

"Fuck, I think we've found you a perfect girlfriend, Brad," Ray tells him in a scenic whisper. "You know, provided you ever get tired of pining over the LT."

Brad doesn't even bother to comment on that, just looks at Ray and shakes his head.

Back at the hotel, Ray takes over the remote control and rediscovers the wonderful world of sitcoms, while Poke disappears in the bathroom, with a roll of toilet paper and a newspaper. Brad's not going to stand in the way of that, he respects anyone who takes shitting seriously.

He tells Ray to fucking behave and not jack off all over his bed and walks out, goes for a run. Another thing he almost forgot he missed, running just for the joy of it, and for the work-out, and not running away or running towards something. He passes a few recreational joggers on his way, two mothers on a walk with their children, and a good number of students coming back from classes. He runs until he gets tired, and then pushes himself a little further. This is the good kind of an exhaustion.

The sun is setting by the time he comes back, he was running for longer than he planned, but it feels good. "Honey, I'm home," he says, opening the door to their room and blinks at the view.

"Poke made dinner," Ray volunteers from over a plate full of pasta. He looks like he's annoyed that he was made to eat with a fork, like he could just inhale the whole thing in one go.

"Honey, if you could only teach the kid some manners," Brad tells Tony dryly.

"He takes after you too much, he's a lost cause," Poke mutters.

"Is this how it's going to be? Anytime he misbehaves it's going to be my fault?" he says, mock-hurt as he sits down. This is the closest he got to a home-cooked meal in years, and no matter how bad Poke cooking skills are, he has a feeling he's going to demand seconds.

"Fuck yeah, dog. You insisted on bringing him along when we could've taken your much better trained spawn. You left Hasser in the future, anything Person does is your fucking fault," Poke informs him with a smile and gets hit by a napkin

"You fucking love me, I rule, you fucking retard," Ray takes another bite and mutters something while chewing. Brad's just glad he's not sitting in front of Ray. It's like he didn't learn anything about eating. It would almost be sad, if it wasn't so disgusting.

Poke rolls his eyes.

"So, while you were gone, finding your zen again, I did some actual work," he tells Brad. "I mapped out the stuff that's missing from the fucking gift shop map, like security. And I marked the buildings that might be of interest."

"This is why I like you best," Brad deadpans and takes the map, looking over it. "You know what's the worst part about this?"

"Civillians?"

"Civillians," Brad agrees. Always making his life difficult. "Our best bet is entering through the lecture halls, they're pretty much open to everyone. Depending on what sort of security they have in place, we'll decide on the route into the labs. We should be able to get close if Nate comes through and his friend gives us the guided tour."

"If Nate comes through?" Ray shakes his head. "Go find your zen again, because this one is defective. It's Nate fucking Fick, even if he still gets carded in the bars. Shit, I think he still got carded in the bars after the OIF."

"Thank you for your input, Ray."

Ray nods, then slides closer and looks at the map. "We need a better layout of the building. Should get a camera before we get there tonight, take some photos of the first circle of security."

"I miss cellphones with cameras," Poke shakes his head. "How much time till the fucking smartphones?"

"Smartphones were one step closer to the Mainframe. I hate fucking smartphones," Ray announces and folds the map up. "It's getting dark, let's fucking go. We can get the camera on our way, by the time we get to the campus it should be dark enough."

Moments like these, Brad remembers why he keeps Ray around, except for the part where Ray just somehow decided to adopt Brad, or be adopted by him who the fuck knew. Under all the retarded comments and Ripped Fuel addiction, Ray is a fucking Recon Marine and good one at that, capable of thinking and planning, and sometimes, though not often, even keeping his mouth shut.

They leave the food as it is, on the table. It's a hotel room, not a house with a picket fence, no need to clean just because they're moving out. They leave and start towards the campus. On the way, Ray stops by a 7/11 and joins them few minutes later with a disposable camera. Good thing they have those in 19 fucking 98.

It's after dark, but there are still students around. Brad contemplates a need for curfew, putting kiddies in beds after sunset, so adults can do their fucking job. "Civillians," he mutters. "Did I ever mention how much I hate them?"

"I seem to recall one or two of such occasions when the Iceman deigned to speak of the little people, yeah," Ray says, his fingers skimming across the camera as he checks the options available to him.

Brad wonders why the fuck would students spend evenings in here when there are keg parties and such available. Sure, there were always people who preferred libraries to beer pong, but why did they have to insist on making Brad's life difficult?

"That's our building," Poke nods and they make their way over there, not given a second glance by anyone. The entrance is closed, needing a student pass to get through. They should look into getting those.

They get through one of the windows; Ray turns out to be incredibly adept at dealing with them. "I've had a really hot neighbour," he tells Brad.

"I really don't need to be treated to the tales of you and your cousins," Brad mutters.

Once inside, Ray falls silent, in what Brad considers his professional mode, as they check the security measures. They find the administrative office easily, it has a lab time roster and the experiments scheduled to be run during the course of the next few months. One of the items on the list looks especially promising.

"Mind control, Nate said?" Ray shakes his head after they get out of the building, the same way they came in. "Man, and here I thought it would be as much of a hokum as time travel," he bitches. "Why does it have to be hardware? Why can't it be a nice bit of data we could just wipe off the servers?"

"Because making your life easier would not be as entertaining. Besides, you're a fucking Recon Marine, not some Army fucktard. You should thrive on the difficult and challenging missions," Poke hits Ray upside the head.

"Children," Brad raises his hands. "Please remember we are not to attract attention. And the way you're acting is making the natives suspicious. May I remind you that is not a good thing?"

"Hey, Brad," Ray's suddenly too cheerful for Brad not to be suspicious. "You know what else would not be a good thing? If a certain college student was coming this way with a happy smile all over his face."

"Fuck me," Brad says with conviction and raises his finger at Ray before he can comment on the word choices and wishful thinking. Brad really doesn't need it, not when Nate seems to have an uncanny ability to zero on him, eyes quickly drawing Brad's.

He used to find this comforting, back in the theater and then again when they all found each other after the madness of the first attacks. He still finds that Nate, his Nate, is what grounds him, anchors him in the real world and allows him to fucking get up every morning and fight another day. It's cheesy as fuck, and it's gayer than Fruity Rudy, but Brad has given up caring some time ago.

"You seem to be here a lot," Nate tells them. "Thinking of enrolling?"

"I've found a course in women's studies that just screams my name," Ray nods, hands in his pockets, a perfect 'aww, shucks' facade. "Poke's going to major in English and do his fucking BA in medieval lit, but Brad here," Ray pauses, his expression indicating the worst. "Brad is very much interested in the Classics."

Brad is very much interested in fucking killing his RTO.

"Right," Nate nods, as if taking Ray's words at face value, but there's a smile playing in the corner of his mouth. "I talked to Susan, she has tomorrow morning free and agreed to play the guide," he offers. "You can meet her now and make plans," he adds, gesturing to the sudden activity on the grass nearby, where people start to gather and set up fucking blankets. There's a few guys setting up a projector directed at the wall of one of the buildings, apparently preparing for a movie showing.

"We can just meet her here tomorrow," Brad shakes his head. Nate gives him a long look, his head tilted and his gaze assessing, and then he fucking turns to look at Ray.

"You have any important things to do tonight?" he asks and Ray, fuck him, grins.

"No, we're pretty much done for the evening," he says, the traitor.

"Good. Come on, you'll meet Suze. And it's the Clint Eastwood week, they're showing Dirty Harry," he adds.

Well, at least it's not fucking Casablanca. "I don't think it's a good idea," he tries.

"Come on, Brad," it's Ray's turn to whine as he looks between Brad, Nate and the girls on the grass. Fucking Person with his fucking porn-filled excuse of a brain. "We'll meet Suze and play nice with the natives. You were just saying we should play nice with the natives."

Brad looks at Poke, looking for some support, but that fucker just raises his hands. "Don't look at me, dog, you're the one calling the shots here." Fucking traitor, so much for having Brad's back when really needed.

"We really should go back to the hotel, make some plans," he tries, but even in his ears it sounds like a half-assed pathetic excuse.

Nate holds his gaze, Brad almost wishes he'd stop doing that. "Come on. World's not going to end just because you watch movies with a bunch of college students," he says, the half amused smile playing on his lips. That smile should be fucking illegal. "Just sit down with us and watch the movie."

Brad knows Nate means for it to sound playful but to Brad's ears it's more of an order. An amused one, but still an order. He stops himself from saying 'yes, sir' just in time. But his mouth is already open and he feels like a fucking retard.

"I suppose we could spare an hour or two," he says hesitantly.

"Good," Nate says, smiling warmly, starting to walk as if he's confident they will follow. And of course they do, because they are used to instinctively following Nate everywhere, into the most hairy clusterfucks of situations. A fucking picnic is, well, a fucking picnic compared to all the other things Nate led them into. And then always led them out.

"It looked like you were having difficulties convincing them to join us, Nate. Losing your touch?" the brunette, Angela, Brad recalls, says with a smirk.

"It's the final success of the mission that counts, Angie," Nate tells her and she laughs. "Well, I guess you've all met, under regrettable circumstances."

"My ex forgot to take his anti-asshole pills that day," Angela explains.

"So, this is Angela, Susan, and her brother Mark," Nate gestures quickly. "Brad, Ray and Poke."

"Tony," Poke corrects and sits down as Angela scoots over to make room for them.

Brad hesitates, and Nate shakes his head, reaching out to place a hand on Brad's shoulder, pressing gently. "Just sit down, the movie's starting. I've been assured you have a lot of time on your hands."

Brad briefly wants to be contrary, see if Nate would press harder, if the warmth resonating from his hand would spread and turn into a burning heat. Instead, he obeys, sinks to his knees before shuffling to sit on the side of the blanket, his legs stretched onto the grass.

He doesn't think about that brief moment of looking up, Nate's face obscured by the play of dark and light from the screen. His eyes so familiar but his face blurred enough that Brad could pretend it was his Nate. He doesn't think about that at all.

He doesn't even remember the movie, and if anybody asked him later what it was about he would say it was about a guy who went around shooting people and had an unhealthy relationship with his weapon. Just like fucking Trombley. But the rest of the night and their way back to the hotel doesn't happen in a haze. Because he's a Marine and he doesn't do haze, unless he's hopped up on Ripped Fuel or sleep deprived. None of it is the case here, so he doesn't do fucking haze. And he's not some tree-loving fruitcake who gets distracted just because a boy he likes is sitting right next to him.

So when the morning takes him by surprise it's because of the delayed side effects from the time travel.

He stays in bed a few more minutes after waking, contemplating the clusterfuck that's his life. He allows himself a moment of weakness, admitting that something's been wrong with him ever since he accepted this fucking mission.

But then he closes his eyes and when he opens them again, he's ready to roll.

"Raise and shine, girls, we're meeting our little friends for some sightseeing. We can't have them waiting," he says and stands up. Cold shower sounds appealing.

They've arranged to meet by the coffee stand on the quad, and even though they arrive early, Nate and Susan are already there, sitting on a bench and discussing something animatedly with their heads close together. Brad feels a strong jolt of heat at the sight, jealousy rearing its ugly head.

Even if she is Nate's girlfriend, and Brad doesn't think so, not really, she won't last past this summer, or Brad would have heard about her. He remembers Nate dating briefly post-OIF, a quiet blonde he brought to one of Mike's shindigs, that one party that was more than a guys' night out, when the wives and girlfriends tagged along. But that girl was gone few weeks later, and it seemed like an amicable split.

And yet. Nate laughs at something Susan said, shakes his head, and something tightens inside Brad's stomach. He doesn't begrudge Nate his friends, he actually takes pleasure in seeing Nate like this. And yet.

"Hey, homes, is that a donut?" Ray asks, sitting down next to Susan and peering inside a box she's holding.

"Help yourself, I think I had enough," she says with a smile and hands Ray the box. "So, you guys ready? If we do this now, we'll miss the morning rush," she adds, her small smile indicating she's making a joke, and Brad smiles obligingly.

"Just wait a moment, Suze, I have something I need to ask Brad," Nate says and tugs slightly at Brad's sleeve, his fingers briefly skimming Brad's wrist in the process. "I didn't tell Suze anything about your interest in the lab," he tells Brad when they're far enough not to be overheard. "You'll need to think up your own story if she asks. Just don't overdo with the bullshit, she's kind enough to try and believe you, but she's not a research star for nothing, she'll deductive reason your ass."

"Copy that," Brad says, nodding. "Anything else?"

Nate's eyes narrow as he looks up. "No, that would be all."

It takes a lot of Brad's willpower not to snap to attention, not to go out with a 'yes, sir'. Nate's a manipulative fuck, and he's really figuring out too much too fast.

If-- _When_ Brad gets back to his own timeline, he will have some serious words with his Nate about torturing and confusing the grunts with the choir boy looks and professional CO behavior.

They join Susan and the guys, Brad quickly assesses the situation and he's relieved that Ray hasn't done anything to scare Susan off. Always a plus, but he wonders how much of that can be atributed to Poke's damage control skills.

Susan smiles at Nate, and maybe at Brad too, when they join them again. "All ready now?" she asks and Nate nods.

They start walking, and Brad feels like a tourist instead of a Recon Marine. Especially since Ray and Poke walk slightly behind them, with Ray taking pictures like a Japaneese tourist on crack and Poke taking notes. Brad knows both the pictures and the notes about the security measures and people around will be incredibly useful later on. But for now, it just makes them look like retards.

Not that he cares.

Susan doesn't even ask them why they are so interested in the lab, she just inquires whether there is a particular thing they want to see or whether they just want the standard tour. Brad is slightly worried that she seems to have 'a standard tour' lecture prepared, but other than being overly nerdish, she seems alright.

The security part, that worries him slightly. Seems like the proper student ID gets them into the lab, and Susan remarks on needing clearance from one of the professors to actually use some of the equipment, but the real trouble starts with the closed off area. "Professor Randolph's research is semi-classified," Susan explains.

"Semi-classified?" Brad asks carefully.

Susan nods. "Yes. They require special ID passes, because it's a government contract or something. It's not really my area of expertise, so... Still, the ID passes are nothing compared to what the Cybernetics department wanted for their lab area. Though, for some reason, the Dean wasn't amused by the plans of retinal scanners at every door."

Brad likes the Dean. More and more with every moment of imagining exactly how difficult it would be to pass the scanners. They will need those fucking IDs though.

"So, if there's no more questions from the class," Susan says, a hint of teasing in her voice, but Brad feels the joke is directed at herself, "I'm going to get back to rechecking my lab results. Nate said to tell you we're having lunch in the same place he did yesterday, if you'd like to join us," she adds, the smile never leaving her face.

It just figures that even Nate's fucking friends would be conspiring against Brad. And he was actually beginning to like this girl.

"If we find the time," he says politely. "Thank you again for the trouble of showing us the lab," he adds.

She shakes her head. "I'm usually roped into these. This one's actually been fun, usually it's school trips and little kids. All they're interested in is whether anything in here explodes."

Brad doesn't say that he'd be interested in knowing that, too.

"So, what now?" Poke asks as they leave. "I'm sorry to be the one to say it, but we need the student passes. And I don't think we have the time to enroll in the bioengineering programme and wait until they give us those. For one, it's the middle of the school year and a transfer is a bitch to arrange if you're not actually a student somewhere."

"I guess we'll have to get them the old fashioned way." Brad had never before broken into a school office, not even while he actually was in fucking school, but he doesn't have any ethical problems with that. It might actually be entertaining.

They don't meet Nate and Susan for lunch. Not that Ray doesn't whine about it, but Brad has the last fucking word and they stay in. He's set on limiting his exposure to Nate as much as possible. And planning breaking and entering distracts him just enough.

After 10 pm they decide it's late enough for the offices to be empty. With students either attending parties or doing some actual studying and the teaching staff already home.

They start with locating Professor Randolph's office. It's embarassing how easy it is to get in the building, especially when you compare the security to the labs. They split, Ray taking the third floor, Poke the second and Brad covering the rest. He does his best not to leave any traces of his presence, but it's mostly to amuse himself.

He finds the right office and is about to pick the lock when the security alarm sounds off. He's about to insult Ray and Poke and their families down several generations, when three not quite sober guys pass him running and laughing and yelling. He allows himself a second of frustrated cursing before packing up his lock picks and running down the hallway to get the fuck out of here. He doesn't worry about Ray and Poke, they will extract themselves and probably meet him outside, or back in the hotel.

He manages to get to the staircase and down to the ground floor before bumping into someone.

No, not someone. Nate.

"Brad?" Nate frowns, confusion clear on his face.

"Fucking hell, are you stalking me?" Brad mutters and looks around.

"No," Nate says, shrugging. "Should I?" he adds, and it's aimed as a joke, Brad gets that, but he's too tired to smile. "I was just taking a shortcut from the library. It's raining outside," he adds, and yeah, Brad can hear the distant sound of the downpour that must have started when they were already inside.

Nate's hair is wet, too, he must have gotten caught in it before he made it into the building. Brad glances down, a bad idea, because Nate's shirt is soaked, in a rather distracting way.

There's no time to freak out about it, though, because someone is running down the stairs, and from the sound of it, it's the security. Brad doesn't really feel like explaining himself to them.

"Come on," Nate says, apparently arriving at the similar conclusions. He tugs at Brad's wrist and opens some doors to the side, pulling Brad inside.

A fucking supply closet. At some point Brad's life has become one long string of fucking cliches. Could have been when Nate decided to invent time travel.

"It's all your fault," Brad tells him dryly, closing his eyes and resting his head against a shelf.

"No, that would be the gentlemen from Sigma Nu," Nate says quietly, matter-of-factly, but there's a small smirk forming. "There's this great feud with another fraternity, over a girl no less. It's very Homeric, actually."

"A fraternity feud. Of course," Brad shakes his head. "And you just happen to know this because anything Homeric relates to your interests?"

Nate smiles slowly. "Maybe. But actually, Susan's boyfriend is in Sigma Nu. No, really," he adds at Brad's look. "Puzzles us all too, but Foster's alright when he's not getting worked up about Phi Delt."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Brad says, because fuck, he's hiding in a fucking closet with his future CO and they're discussing turf wars between frat boys. How on earth did he end up like this?

He needs to get out of here, he thinks, but then there are footsteps outside, and a security guy talking on the radio, and Brad freezes with his hand hovering over the doorhandle. Right before it starts to turn.

Thankfully, Nate locked the door behind them, and the security guy withdraws after a moment, and Brad can breathe out again.

Or, he could, if Nate didn't choose right this moment to look up at him, bringing home the point of how close they're standing.

Breathing's overrated anyway, Brad comes to that conclusion, unable to take his eyes off of Nate's lips. He tries to distract himself with mission planning and with all the adjustments they will have to make because Brad failed to procure the damned IDs.

They aren't that close, as in they could be much closer if Brad only took half a step forward, but he can still feel Nate's breath on his skin. Fucking hell. He closes his eyes in an attempt to control himself.

"Talk to me," he hears Nate whisper. There's worry in Nate's voice, and when Brad opens his eyes he sees concern written all over Nate's face.

"What do you want me to talk about?" his voice sounds hoarse and he tries to cover that with a joke. "I draw a line at braiding each other's hair and talking about boys."

The concern in Nate's eyes doesn't disappear. It occurs to Brad that his attempts at controling himself, before he does something really stupid, could've given Nate the wrong impression. He wants to say he's not fucking claustrophobic or anything, but he stops himself. That explanation is better than the real reason. He decides to let Nate think whatever he wants.

"Anything," Nate says, "how's life in twelve years?" his voice is gentle. It's fucking hot. And Brad means both Nate's voice and the general tempreture in the supply closet. The room is clearly not designed for two grown men, well one grown man and one college student, to stay inside for longer than few seconds. The heat's distracting. So is Nate being so fucking close.

"It sucks hairy balls. And that's on a good day," he answers the question, though he's not entirely sure what the question was. But talking's good, if he's talking he's not... doing other things.

"Why do I have a feeling there's not many good days?" Nate asks, and it's not really a question. Brad wants to answer anyway, snort and say that maybe it's because Nate isn't actually a complete idiot.

He shrugs instead. "I'm under strict orders from my commander not to change the fucking timeline. Means I shouldn't really tell you anything," he adds. It's all kind of funny, if you're a fucker with a twisted sense of humour, which Nate probably must be, considering that maybe, just maybe, if they hadn't actually changed anything, he already knew about this very situation.

Brad's head is spinning with the implications and all of this time fuckery, but it's better than thinking of a myriad other things, most of them related to the way Nate's looking at him, concerned and gentle and soft.

Nate took a step back a moment ago, leaned against the side of the shelf, his head tipped back as he listens. The line of his throat is exposed, and the last droplets of rain roll down his neck from his hair. Someone should tell him this just isn't playing fair.

"The last good day I had was sometime in May 2008," Brad offers absently, not looking up from Nate's collarbone. It's actually safer than looking into Nate's eyes, strange as it may be. "There are moments. Last month we've had a decent few hours when Allen figured out how to heat up water in larger amounts without using too much energy."

"And then you invented time travel," Nate prompts, slightly bemused.

"You know how it goes," Brad shrugs. "People get bored, they try out stuff for shits and giggles, next thing you know, you're locked up in a supply closet in 19 fucking 98. Happens."

"You make it sound like any other mission."

"It does have all the markings of an easy one," Brad tells him. "Nobody shot at us yet. I consider it a plus. And even if they did, human eye isn't all that reliable, we'd probably live..."

Probably. Unless the shooter was a trained killing machine... Machine. Fuck, he really didn't want to go there. Once upon a fucking time they called first Recon killing machines. And then the actual machines came and Recon had to resolve to hiding and running scared because there were so few of them and so many of the enemy.

He could still see Lilley, or rather what was left of him...

"Brad," Nate's quiet voice brings him back. Without thinking he looks up, no longer seeing the fallen bodies of his men. Concentrating on Nate's eyes instead. He feels Nate's hand on his shoulder, the warmth grounding him again. "It's going to be alright," Nate says next and Brad believes him. Just like that, it's that simple. Nate, this Nate, might not know details of future events, but the complete conviction in his voice makes Brad believe him. Everything will be fine.

Brad opens his mouth, but he doesn't know what to say.

He reaches up, to where Nate's hand rests on his shoulder, and covers it with his. Brad's not sure what he wants, if it's already too much and he should ease himself out from the touch, or whether he wants to pull Nate close and finally do what he's been dying to do for months, maybe years, even when he wasn't aware of needing that.

And then Nate shifts even closer, as if he was reading Brad's mind once again. Nate's eyes are wide and the green in them is darker than Brad had ever seen it. His lips are parted, and the little sound he makes, a sharp inhale, is a bit like a question Brad's scared to answer.

"Nate," he mutters, and it comes out broken like a prayer would, because if Brad actually believes in anything or anyone, he thinks it could be Nate. It's scary as fuck. "Nate," he repeats, a second before Nate's lips brush over his.

Two seconds before there's a knock on the door.

"You there, homes?" Ray asks in a bored tone, as if it was a tenth door he knocked on and there were a whole line of doors to knock on next.

Brad moves away from Nate. He doesn't want to, it wasn't enough for him, even though, at the same time it feels like it was too much for him to handle. He watches Nate lick his lips and it takes all of his self-control not to ignore Ray on the other side of the door. He squeezes Nate's hand, still on his shoulder and closes his eyes, trying to calm down.

"No, Ray. I'm not here," he says, his voice controled, a perfect Iceman persona. He reaches for the doorknob and unlocks the door.

"Hiding in the closet now, Brad?" Ray shakes his head. "So many jokes, so little... oh, fuck. Hey, Nate," he says and grins, and Brad can see the little fucking wheels turning in what passes for a brain in Person's head. "Hey, Poke, I found them."

"Them?" Poke asks, coming from around the corner, shaking his head when he sees them. "I see. Well, the security guys are gone for now, they got one drunken frat boy who got tangled in his own pants when he was trying to run away. But I have a nasty feeling they'll be back to do another sweep, just to make sure, and they called in the Dean and some other folks to see the damage, so let's get the fuck out."

So, no chance to go back and get the fucking IDs. Brad nods and tries to avoid Poke's searching gaze. And Ray's gaze. And, fuck, Nate's gaze.

Whatever has come over him few minutes ago is gone, and he can think rationally, and realise how much of a bad idea this was, how much of a fucking idiot he was to let Nate kiss him.

There's just a part of him that regrets he couldn't be a fucking idiot for a few moments more, that he didn't get a chance to really taste Nate, to pull him too close and touch him all over.

Nate runs his hand through his hair and licks his lips again, and fuck, he hadn't said a word for the last few minutes, Brad suddenly realises, and his expression is closed off and unreadable, even for Brad. Maybe Brad fucked this up. Maybe that's a good thing.

"Alright, let's get out of here. Nate, I'm pretty sure I'll see you around."

Nate looks up at that, nods, the corner of his mouth twitching, but there's no real humor there, just a wry recognition. "I've been assured of that," he says and nods again, swiftly, before he turns on his heel and walks away. It shouldn't fucking hurt that much to see him go, Brad thinks. It shouldn't fucking hurt at all.

"Did I interrupt something?" Ray asks him.

Brad doesn't even know what to say to him. There are some levels of retardation he's not prepared to deal with.

He tunes out the Person Broadcast on their way back to the hotel; Ray seems to be going on and on about some theory he has about dicksucking and fraternities and, possibly, the prices of real estates in San Francisco, Brad doesn't know and doesn't give a fuck.

He can't help but wonder what's going on in Nate's head right now, if he's second guessing himself, if he's already started to regret the near kiss. Brad has no idea, can't even guess, and that's a sobering thought, that maybe he doesn't know Nate as well as he thought.

He hears Nate's name and tunes back in to what Ray's going on about. "All I'm saying is, I think it's really unfair Brad gets to make out in closets with our jailbait CO and I don't get time off to go and fuck my waitress."

Poke shakes his head. "Could you go any less cliche than a fucking waitress? You, dog, are no Kyle fucking Reese."

"Well, I could do a bioengeenering grad student," Ray allowed. "I think Susan wants me."

Brad looks at him for a very long moment, shaking his head. "Ray, just because a girl gives you a donut, probably because she hopes that when you're stuffing your whiskey tango piehole you can't talk, although I happen to know she's sadly mistaken in that regard; it doesn't mean she wants you," he says. "Besides, I know on a good authority that she has a boyfriend."

"That's what you and Fick were doing in the fucking closet? Talking about girls and boys? I'm disappointed with you, Brad, I would have hoped you at least got to the fucking second base with our fearless future leader."

He doesn't respond to that. Mostly because he doesn't want to encourage Ray. But also because he knows that if he lies, they will know. And there's no chance in fucking hell he tells them the truth.

"Awww, look Poke!" The glee in Ray's voice makes Brad want to hurt him. A lot. "Brad's all silent and ignoring us. Maybe he actually got to grope Nate and now they are boyfriends and will go on dates and Brad will write about tonight in his diary and waste all the glitter to draw hearts around their names."

"Yes. And when we get back, I'll make sure that Walt sees the part of my diary where I describe in detail your quest to fuck a waitress," Brad smiles pleasantly. Because he fucking can, and it's time to remind Ray that this mocking goes both ways.

"You wouldn't!"

Brad just smiles, because he would. Even if he had to create the entire diary just for this purpose. He would.

"Alright, girls, I understand that boys are so much more interesting than our fucking mission, but can we get back to the matter at hand?" Poke tries to sound irritated, but it doesn't really work.

"Which matter would that be, Poke? The one where we couldn't steal IDs from a very badly secured office because a bunch of frat boys decided to pull of a prank, the one where Person is a whiskey tango retard or the one where we might've changed the future too much because we told our fucking future CO about the mission?"

Poke frowns throughtfully, just as Brad's opening the doors to their hotel room. "You think we've actually changed the future?" he asks, a bit worriedly.

Brad shrugs. "Fuck knows. We've agreed he's useful, as apparently he never was anything other than incredibly fucking resourceful, and let's contemplate how that's scary as fuck, but..." he pauses, because the understanding dawns, and he's not going to share this one with the class. "I need to take a shit," he tells them and shuts the bathroom door behind himself.

"Is he going to jack off over Nate's competence? Because that's some kinky fucking shit," Ray's voice carries through the door.

He can't even have a fucking moment to himself to have a motherfucking mental breakdown in motherfucking peace and quiet. He sits down on the closed toilet seat and breathes out.

Resourceful. He should have figured it out much sooner, but apparently his brain was still addled from the time travel, and then further turned into mush due to Nate's fucking presence. Fucking IDs and fucking money and the certainty that the time travel would work and Brad hadn't realised.

Nate knew. He knew they were going to run into him when he was sending them back. He knew all of this for years, he knew it back in Iraq, back when they first met.

And he kept that from Brad.

"You fucker," he says, dropping his head into his hands. Motherfucking liberal tree-hugging shit, knew everything all along and never breathed a word to anyone. Never breathed a word to Brad. Brad, who trusted Nate more than anyone, who loved him more than...

Something cold settles in his stomach. Fuck.

This is not happening. Brad did not just... Fucking hell. Brad has an overwhelming need to bang his head against the wall, hopefully leaving his brain behind. He is so fucked. Fucked doesn't even cover this. He's in love with his commanding officer. Has been for years, probably.

And Nate will never know, because even if, somehow, the fucking remote works and they don't change too much and are able to get back... There is no way in the fucking hell that Brad will be able to look Nate in the eye and tell him. Not his CO. Not his Nate.

But there's a Nate right here too... Not that it matters, anyway, since this Nate is like fucking fifteen, fine, twenty, and Brad's thirty six. It would be all kinds of wrong, and Brad would go to a special circle of hell for it.

For fucking sake, since when does he even consider being with his CO a possibility?

Fucking fuck, what did he do to deserve this nightmare?

"Brad, fuck, you're not the only one who needs to drop a fucking load," Ray yells, banging on the doors twice.

You could always count on Ray Person to say just the right thing. "Fuck off, Ray," he yells back and stands up, turns the cold water up in the sink, takes a moment to wash his face and hands. Better, but not by much, he thinks, staring at himself in the mirror.

He's been aware of the attraction for years, for god's sake, he started having passing thoughts about his LT back in Iraq, during the first week even. But the man looked like he looked, and it was probably inevitable, and fuck, he's pretty sure if Nate wasn't there, his passing thoughts would be about Rudy or Walt or, god help him, Ray, because being in the theater fucks you up and the homoerotic environment gets to everyone at some point

And sometimes after that Nate has become the most important thing in the world going to shit, but this was still one huge step away from being motherfucking cocksmoking fairy gay in love with him.

Although, apparently, not such a huge step after all.

***

 _When he hears the explosion, he loses his breath for a moment. His face goes white, he knows that only because Mike asks him if everything's alright. He nods, but he's not being honest. Nothing's alright until he can locate Brad and make sure he's okay._

 _And then they get the word on what exactly that explosion was. Sgt Colbert disarming a bomb in a garden. Of all the stupid and reckless things he could've done..._

 _Nate exchanges a glance with Mike, they both know it's a stupid idea. Brad might be the Iceman, the Recon Marine they tell stories about, but he still doesn't have the proper training. And one false move would mean everything going to hell. Nate decides to have a serious chat with Brad when they rest for the night. It wouldn't do for morale to yell at him in from of everybody. And, God, Nate wants to yell at Brad so much right now._

 _He's about to move on to another pressing matter, when Lilley says Brad's disarming another bomb, with Poke trying to talk him out of it. Nate's blood runs cold. If Poke can't talk Brad out of something it means Brad feels very strongly about it. He feels so strongly about protecting those damn buildings that he's going to kill himself and half of the platoon too._

 _Nate nods at Gunny Wynn to accompany him and he goes to deal with this. He's not going to let Brad die. Not again._

 _"Get out of there, Brad," he says curtly, and expects to be obeyed immediately. Brad doesn't disobey orders, not even if he considers them to be moronic._

 _But Brad doesn't move, just looks up at him pleadingly, and Nate knows that every second he spends close to that bomb is a second more of being in unnecessary danger._

 _"Sir, we've another Mark-82," Brad explains and Nate thinks he can't deal with it, can't honestly be expected to let Brad fucking blow himself up. Not again._

 _He knows Brad is going to survive this, knows this in his bones, because he had met Brad, he had seen the man from years into the future, and yet, maybe this is because Nate tells him to get the fuck out of the hole right now._

 _He can't take chances._

 _"That's an order," he says._

 _"Sir, I strongly request," Brad starts, trying to argue, and it's all Nate could do not to turn away. He'd willingly grant Brad any request, anything, but not this._

 _"I will not let you blow yourself up trying to maintain property values in Greater Baghdad. That's a no-go."_

 _Brad looks betrayed and at any other moment it would hit Nate, and hit him hard. Because Brad's the one who has absolute confidence in Nate's leadership. And for Nate, Brad's acceptance and respect are the only things that matter in this fucked up war._

 _It's obvious, not only to Nate, that Brad doesn't want to leave. He wants to stay in and risk his life._

 _"Up and out, Sergeant," Mike says firmly and Nate is grateful for the support._

 _"Get out of the hole," he says firmly. There's a final note in his voice and he hopes it carries through._

 _Brad looks at him. He doesn't say anything, but Nate still hears the plea, asking Nate to let him do this. Possibly just this one, and they will move on. But Nate doesn't want to risk it. Anyone else in the hole and he would probably just tell them to be careful and not get killed. But with Brad... It's not even a good joke._

 _This order will not be disobeyed._

 _When Brad doesn't respond immediately, Nate raises his eyebrows, challenging Brad to openly disobey, so he could write him up and send him out of Iraq, back to safety. At the same time, he just wants Brad out of the hole and back in the relative safety of the Humvee. Yes, he'll settle for that._

 _He's relieved when Brad reaches out to Poke and gets out of the hole. It's like the world is moving again, and Nate can breath and function properly. Brad's not going to die. Not today, at least._

 _"We're done here, Brad," he says, closing the door for any objections. The defeat in Brad's posture hurts, but assures him, his team leader won't attempt any more of rogue detonations._   
_He can walk away now._

 

***

 

"What the fuck, Brad," Ray tells him once Brad gets out of the bathroom, once he's pretty sure his face doesn't show anything but his carefully schooled down expression. "If you want to fucking sulk like a little bitch, go out, find yourself an SUV and lay under it for a while, don't block the fucking bathroom," he says and stalks in, throwing his hands in the air in annoyance.

Poke looks at Brad and shakes his head. "Everything fine?" he asks quietly.

Brad shrugs. "We're failed Marines who can't even break into a liberal-breeding, dick-sucking excuse of an institution. What do you think?"

"Your pal Ray-Ray thinks it's because of the co-ed pussy," Ray volunteers from the bathroom. Probably sitting on the toilet, too, dropping a load while he spins his theories. Brad really needs to rethink his social life, if these are his closest friends. Maybe he needs to get out more.

And get shot in the head by the fucking machines. That would serve him right.

"It's been a while since short skirts and stockings and high heels and fucking bikini wax, homes. It's like the Iraq clusterfuck, all the broads were wearing the fucking burkas and it made everyone retarded when we came home. Couldn't tell the up from down for a while, all because I caught the delicious smell of pussy coming from the motherland the moment we touched down. Proximity of pussy makes you stupid."

"Ray, shut the fuck up," Brad tells him pleasantly.

"Except for Brad," Ray continues. "Brad's retardation is not due to pussy but because of his future CO's dick. Let's discuss this, class."

"Ray, I swear, I'm going to fucking kill you."

There's a knock on the door and Poke rolls his eyes. "Five bucks says it's the neighbours, complaining about the noise Person is making."

It's Nate.

Because Brad's life just wasn't complete.

"Seriously, Brad, just stop fucking pretending, you've already came out of the closet, we had fucking seen you do this, just admit you're gay for the Captain's cock," Ray yells from the bathroom.

"Bad time?" Nate asks dryly.

"I could tell you that Ray's manners improve when there are guests around, but that would be an outright lie," Brad informs him, going for cool and insulting towards Person instead of freaking out because Nate just showed up out of nowhere. "So, unfortunately, it's always bad time when it comes to Person," he finishes and moves to the side, letting Nate in.

"Nate," Poke greets him with a smile, his voice loud enough to carry through the bathroom door. When they get out of here, Brad will give Poke a medal. Or something, anything to show the man how he appreciates the efforts.

Nate nods at Poke and ignores the yells from the bathroom. They should do that more often, ignore Ray.

"What can we do for you?" Brad asks, because the sooner they know the reason behind this visit the sooner Nate leaves. Not that Brad wants him to leave. Fuck, he's pathetic.

"I know you didn't get the passes you wanted," Nate says, looking at Brad like he's the only person in the room. "But I think I found a way to remedy that." Well of course he did. He's Nate fucking Fick, a guy who planned the time travel mission and arranged for the essentials, not to mention invented fucking time travel. Of course he found a way for them to get the damn passes.

Brad's not bitter, not at all.

"What is it?" he asks, sticking to the business side of things. Better for eveyone, that way.

Ray gets out of the bathroom and has the good grace to look contrite. Or at least try to look contrite and fail majorly.

"Angela works part-time in the Dean's office," Nate volunteers. "It's going to take some convincing, but I'm sure she will help us," he says, his gaze still on Brad. 'Us', Brad thinks, wondering when they had become 'us' in Nate's head, when did Nate align himself with them, when did he make it his mission to help them in any way he could.

Nate Fick is a motherfucking bastard who kept this whole thing from Brad for years. And yet here he is, just a kid, trying his best to help them. Looking for something from Brad, some recognition, trust, approval. It's the same way he looked at Brad the first time they've met, something Brad could never figure out.

It rises up now, an almost forgotten memory, Nate's open gaze and his nervous smile, out of place with what should happen when the new platoon commander meets one of his team leaders for the first time. Except it wasn't the first time, not for Nate. It clicks into place and Brad shakes his head, understanding now.

"Good thinking," he says. "Any chance..."

"She's in the bar now. Same one where we met. Mark's finally done with his research paper and we're celebrating," Nate shrugs, hands in his pockets, as if slightly embarrassed about this, about taking time to have drinks with friends like he fucking should.

"No time like the present," he says and nods at Poke and Ray.

Ray, from his side, rolls his eyes. "Who's making lame time jokes now?" he mutters darkly.

Brad doesn't respond to that. Sometimes responses just encourage Ray to carry on with the retarded discussion.

"I guess you'll be buying us those drinks after all," he tells Nate and watches as a grin appears on Nate's face.

"I would do it anyway," Nate says in a soft tone and Brad wonders what he really means.

"Alright, boys, let's go to that bar," he says to Poke and Ray. "And let's try not starting any fights this time."

"Hey! It wasn't really our fault the last time. And besides, you're the one who intervened, so don't go blaming me and Poke. We're, like, completely innocent in this," Ray punches Brads arm. He's obviously suicidal. Or maybe he thinks Brad won't cause him bodily harm with Nate around. He's mistaken. Brad proves that to him by immediately hitting him upside the head.

"For once," Poke mutters, more to himself than to participate in the conversation.

The bar is more crowded than the last time, and most of the people seem to know Nate, judging by the smile and nods he get. One girl waves at him with intent, but Brad doesn't even have the time to deal with his irritation flaring up, because Nate shakes his head at her with a smile and continues on his way, heading for where Angela's sitting.

She's deep in a discussion, or maybe an argument, with some guy who looks a bit too old to be a student, but whose hand is resting comfortably on Mark's thigh, which may explain his presence.

"Just because something happened on Stargate, doesn't make it a valid argument," he's telling Angela, who waves her hand dismissively.

"Oh, please," she says.

"A moment of your time, Angie?" Nate asks, drawing her attention. She gives him a long look, then beams.

"It will cost you, but sure," she says and stands up. "This isn't over," she tells the guy.

"It never is," he sighs, but he's smiling, leaning to hear something Mark is saying quietly.

This may go some lenght into explaining why Nate seems unbothered by the age difference between him and Brad... And this isn't a helpful thought, or a well timed one. Brad shakes his head and looks around for Poke, who managed to find an empty table in the meantime. At least someone is efficient. Though he's still not as efficient as their not-yet CO. Still. But fuck, Poke is more mission-oriented than Brad himself.

But that's Nate's fault.

Angela steps away from her table and joins Nate and Brad and the rest.

"What can I do for you and your friends?" she asks with a smirk and eyes Brad. "And does it include sexual favors? Please say yes?"

Nate chuckles. "Sorry, no. But I'll let you know if that changes. The guys wanted to ask you something."

Of course. Because Nate could be oh so helpful, but he can't do the entire work for them. So obviously he leaves the actual explanations to them. So they work for it.

Brad suspects it's mostly so he doesn't have to lie to his friends, and Brad can respect that. But it still irritates him a little bit.

"Nate told us you work at the Dean's office?" he starts carefully.

Angela nods. "Yeah. I'm the only reason this place runs smoothly, no matter what Dean Jones says," she grins. "Why? You're not students here, so..."

"That's part of our problem," Poke tells her, putting up a concerned yet innocent expression. Brad wonders if that one works on Gina.

Angela just glances at Nate darkly, and then turns back to Poke, giving him a look. "This is going to be something immoral, illegal, or both?"

"Technically illegal," Poke shrugs. "We need to get into the bioengeneering lab."

"Ask Susan. She loves giving tours."

"We had the tour. It's basic access, we need a bit more."

Angela and Poke seem to be enjoying the negotiations slightly. Brad shakes his head as they go on and catches Nate's gaze over their heads, glares a little for a good measure. The corner of Nate's mouth twitches in bemusement and Brad looks away. Not helping himself.

"There's something inside we need a closer look at," Poke is saying.

"Why?" Angela asks automatically.

"It's important."

"Why?"

"Can't tell you."

"Why?"

Poke rolls his eyes. "Because we're from the future and the fate of the humankind depends on it," he deadpans.

Nate snorts. Angela just looks at Poke, unimpressed. "A guy tried that line on me at a party once," she says, then looks at Brad. "You're much better looking, so I suppose it gets you bonus points."

"Angela," Nate says, reaching out to touch her shoulder, getting her attention. "This is important. Can't tell you exactly why, but believe me, I wouldn't be asking if it wasn't. Can you do this for me?" he asks and then smiles wryly. "Wouldn't want to try and break into Jones' office for the passes."

"Jones would go ballistic," she agrees with a small laugh and then nods seriously. "Okay," she says.

And that's what it takes. Brad would be impressed, or maybe surprised, but then again, he's not exactly known for his ability to say no to Nate Fick. In any regard.

"It's like he has superpowers," he hears Ray awed whisper. And maybe Person's right. Maybe it is some sort of superpower, some weird genetic quirk making people trust Nate and Nate's judgement without any question. Something that makes Nate grow up to be Brad's Nate...

"But you'll have to wait till tomorrow. If I suddenly show up at work after hours it'll be suspicious. I hate staying longer than absolutely necessary and everybody knows that."

Brad nods. "It's okay. We appreciate you doing it anyway."

"Oh you have no idea," she inform him with a devious smile and turns to Nate, pointing her finger at him. "I won't let you forget this for years. I hope you realize that," she tells him and he just smiles.

"Why don't I buy them those drinks we owe them?" Nate says and motions at them to get settled. They do, because they clearly have no free will and are wired to do as their Captain tells them to.

Nate goes to buy the drinks, and Ray goes after him, saying he needs to help carry the beer mugs back, but mostly, he probably wants a closer look at the barmaid's tits. Brad watches them, worried a bit that Ray will at some point open his big mouth again, but that's not the only reason why his eyes are glued to Nate.

"We've been running a pool about you two for a while," Poke says suddenly, his voice low and carefully nonchalant. "Gave up few months ago, when we decided you were both emotionally retarded."

"Is this your fucked up way of telling me I have the platoon's blessing to molest our commanding officer?"

"It's my way of saying you don't need to beat yourself up so much over it, dog, but it's curious how your mind makes a giant leap right to that," Poke says cheerfully and stands up, letting Nate slide onto the seat, right next to Brad.

He's surrounded by matchmaking fuckers.

"So, what are our plans for tomorrow?" Nate asks, and Brad shakes his head.

"There's no 'our' plans," he says quickly. "You have classes, or whatever the fuck else you and your little friends do at this pussy dicksuck university. We have a mission to complete."

And fuck if Nate's narrowed gaze isn't cutting steel now, piercing right into Brad. Not angry, or even irritated, just curious and searching.

"You can't honestly believe I did all those things to help you and I'll just sit around while you complete your mission," he says calmly, and he might've as well called them all idiots. He might not have said it out loud, no, but it's clearly implied.

"Dog, really. You have no training," Poke points out reasonably. Brad nods at that, because that's one of the reasons, right there.

"You'll be entering a campus lab, using passes provided by one of my friends. How much training does that actually require?" Nate asks dryly. If it was any other person, Brad would feel deeply insulted, but it's Nate. And Brad knows he doesn't mean to offend them or their training. Simply point out what seems illogical to him. Which is exactly what shows his lack of training. He'll learn.

"Anything can go wrong, Nate," Brad says seriously, looking at him, asking him to understand and simply trust him, trust them.

"Brad," Nate says and Brad feels like he's been suckerpunched. He can't say no to Nate. It goes against everything he believes in. But this one time he has to because it's more important than just Brad and his... thing for Nate.

"No," he just says.

"It's not a big deal, man," Ray tries. "We'll be in and out in a matter of minutes. It's going to be very boring, anticlimactic even." Brad appreciates him trying, but he knows it's not going to work.

Nate looks as if he didn't even register Ray's words, his gaze is firmly fixed on Brad, pinning him down. "Why?" he asks, and Brad knows it's more than just about Brad's decision about the mission, it's about everything else too.

He can't bring himself to lie.

"Just in case anything goes wrong, I can't risk it. Can't risk anything happening to you. I'm under strict orders from my commanding officer not to fuck up the timeline, and I'm not going to go against them."

"You sound incredibly sure me going with you could fuck up your timeline."

Brad nods. In for a penny, in for a pound, he supposes. "If anything happens to you, I may not have a commanding officer to give me that order."

He watches it sink in. Nate's smart, he figures it out in under three seconds, surprise to understanding in a flash.

"Fuck, Brad," Ray says. "So, I'm not allowed to tell him anything about where we're from, but you go and tell him he can order us around? What the fuck, man?"

"Ray, shut up," Poke mutters and stands up. "Better yet, come on. I think it's a good time to go and do some fucking shopping for all the things we're going to take back to our time and then be hailed as kings by all the other miserable fucks who don't have toilet paper."

Nate doesn't even spare them a look, all his attention still on Brad. "This keeps on getting better," he says dryly.

"You don't look as surprised as you should," Brad accuses him.

"I didn't expect the commanding officer part," Nate shrugs. "But I've figured I was a part of whatever John Connor shit you have been running. So, I send you back here?"

Brad shrugs. There's not much more to say. So instead of just confirming what Nate already knows, Brad nods towards the exit where Poke and Ray disappeared few seconds ago.

"Why don't we go outside?" he says, because it sounds better than 'let me walk you home so we can discuss this whole fucked up situation'.

Nate watches him for a moment and nods. He quickly says his goodbyes to his friends, who are still celebrating and laughing.

They leave the bar and Nate's the first one to start walking. Brad doesn't know where they are going, but he does the same thing he always does. He follows Nate.

***

 _Nate looks at the papers in front of him again. The words hadn't changed since the last time he looked. This is his chance to leave this all behind. After the difficult time in Afghanistan and the fuckery that was Iraq, Nate finally has a chance to move on. Maybe to something that makes more sense that following orders of people he doesn't even respect._

 _When his reenlistment papers arrived, he thought it would be an easy choice. None of the men he served with in Iraq are under his command right now. Some left the Corps, some went back for the second tour in Iraq. Even Brad left. Leaving everything for an exchange program with the Royal Navy. There's nothing in the Marine Corps that's keeping Nate. He could go back to school. Maybe even try to change the way the military is being run..._

 _He could do anything with his life, really._

 _Making a choice just because of some phantom future he only got a second-hand glimpse of would be damn foolish._

 _He remembers when Brad admitted that Nate was his commanding officer, back where he came from. Forward where he came from._

 _Good few years and Nate still hasn't figured out the tenses on this clusterfuck._

 _But maybe even in Brad's timeline Nate resigned, maybe he came back later, who the fuck knows how things went after an actual apocalypse. That last thought weighs on him guiltily still; he knows it's not his job to change the course of the history, but sometimes he wishes he could. Sometimes he thinks he could._

 _And what a better way to try than find a job somewhere his voice could be heard._

 _His phone rings, startling him out of his thoughts. "Nate Fick," he says and there's a snort on the other end, a familiar one._

 _"Of course you are, sir. Who else would sit in his office on his second day of libo, when there are so many other things to do?"_

 _"How do you even know I'm in my office?" he asks, bemused, leaning back against his chair, cradling the phone to his ear. He missed this, the easy back and fro, the warmth spreading through him when Brad doesn't miss a beat._

 _"You insult me. Took you less than three seconds to pick up," Brad says, and there's a pause, as if he wanted to say something and changed his mind. "The reason I'm calling, sir," he says seriously, but the tone of fond teasing is somewhere there in his tone. "The Esperas anniversary party. Poke seems to have this strange idea I'm the right person to convince you to come. Says Gina will fuck us all up if you don't show, but mostly I think he missed us like a little bitch and is too pussy to admit it."_

 _"I trust your assessment, Sergeant," Nate tells him. "I'll do my best to be there," he adds, glancing at the papers in front of him. His words echo in his head. It's close enough to the answer he's been looking for._

 _"If you want, I could send Person after you. He's stationed close enough if I remember correctly."_

 _"Not to insult Ray Person and his charming personality, but I thought you wanted me to show up," Nate smiles and looks away from the papers. If Brad was in his office right now, Nate imagines he would see an amused expression on Brad's face. He misses seeing Brad, being able to communicate without any words._

 _"You might have a point, sir," there it is, a clear amusement in Brad's voice._

 _"You know, Brad..." he hesitates for a second, his gaze returning to the papers in front of him. "I'm no longer your Commanding Officer, you don't have to address me in this way."_

 _"Your leadership has left an impression, sir. And you never know. Once I get back, I might put in for a transfer. Especially if I decide I'd like a competent officer in charge, for a change."_

 _Nate laughs at that. There's no point in denying that compliments coming from Brad always mean more to him. Brad's respect means everything. Especially since that's all he can get._

 _"I'll..." Nate picks up a pen and hovers above the signature line. "I'll try to make myself available in that case," he says and signs the papers._

 _He could leave and come back. He could. But he doesn't want to leave Brad. Not when there's even a small chance they can share something again, maybe even before the end comes._

 _"In the meantime, I'll see you at the party. Nate," there's something in Brad's voice, something Nate hadn't heard in years. It's makes him feel like he made the right decision._

 __  
_"You can count on it, Brad."_

 _***_

 

The evening is pleasantly warm, but Brad feels a little flushed. He would blame the beer, except he hasn't even touched it. Which is a damn shame, if you think about it.

They fall into a pace that is almost too familiar, deja vu all over again, and it stings that little bit.

"I would have known all along," Nate says, shaking his head.

"Yeah. Probably. You never mentioned it, though," Brad mutters and wants to take it back, because maybe this is the reason why Nate hadn't. He's fucking tired of second guessing this. He's fucking tired of a whole lot of things.

"It's here," Nate says, gesturing at the building in front of which they've just stopped. It was closer than Brad thought it would be. He wishes he had a moment more to gather his thoughts. Nate looks at him, looks up from under his lashes, and nods curtly. "Come on in," he says.

Brad can't remember all the good reasons why he shouldn't.

None of those matters though, not really. It's a wonder he's not a laughing stock at the base, having no free will when it comes to Nate Fick. Surely people noticed, they aren't all retarded...

"It's not a good idea," he feels the need to point out.

There's an eerily familiar look on Nate's face, one that disappears quickly as Nate gets his emotions in check again.

"Brad..." he says in a tone Brad has heard before. But this time, he's not in a ring, about to be sent to the past. He won't disappear suddenly. He nods and follows Nate to his flat, and he does so almost on an autopilot.

He doesn't pay much attention to how long it takes to get to the right floor, or how many doors they pass until they reach Nate's flat.

He's too busy remembering the last time he heard Nate say his name like that. Like there was something he wanted to say, but couldn't find the words. Suddenly, the need to know what exactly his Nate wanted to say is relevant, important. The idea that Brad might not find out ever again frustrates him more than anything.

"Why did you ask me to come in?" Brad asks Nate, this Nate, who always wanted to say something when they were downstairs, but stopped himself, maybe couldn't find the right words. And maybe if Brad can figure out what this Nate wanted to say...

He watches Nate shrug and raise his eyes to meet Brad's gaze.

"I figured you'll be completing your mission soon and than you'll be going back... Or forward," Nate shakes his head, unable to find the right words to describe the time-travel fuckery. "It may be the last moment I get with you. For a very long time, at least," he adds, a dry smile tugging at his lips.

Brad gets it now. "You were saying goodbye," he mutters, and he's not speaking to this Nate, not really.

"Well, I wasn't saying it just yet," Nate mutters, turning his key in the lock.

Fucker, Brad thinks. He wasn't sure they would come back, maybe doubted they will. And that's what Brad got, a miserable pussy attempt at a stoic goodbye and all that 'it's been an honor' shit. They should have had more time. They should have had years. Maybe the Corps really made you fucking repressed, because at least this Nate seems to have the right idea.

He waits for the doors to click shut behind them, but this is as considerate as he can be, before stepping forward and pressing Nate against the wall, finally giving in to what he wanted to do for too long now.

"That's more of a hello than a goodbye," Nate mutters into Brad's mouth, seconds before they kiss, for real this time, long and sloppy and a bit too rushed, but nobody gives a fuck. And hell, Nate doesn't even have the fucking Marine training just yet, but he can hold his breath for a really long time, his tongue mapping out Brad's mouth with enthusiasm.

"Was that a complaint I've heard?" Brad asks him, already making a quick work of Nate's shirt, not bothering he sends a button flying.

He feels Nate's hand on the back of his neck, his eyes half closed. "No, never," Nate mutters and Brad can't help but smile against Nate's lips.

His hands explore, trying to get rid of all the layers of fabric that stand between Brad and Nate's skin. He can't wrap his head around the fact that he can actually do that, touch Nate, kiss him. And the fact that Nate is responding to his touch, giving back as good as he gets, makes it all even more surreal.

There's a voice, tiny voice, at the back of Brad's mind, saying that this is his future commanding officer. Nate, his Nate, will remember all of this and it could possibly fuck everything up beyond all recognition. It could destroy what Brad valued about his relationship with Nate back in Iraq...

It takes every bit of his control to move away, and stay that way even when he hears the sound Nate makes at the loss of contact. He closes his eyes. This is the only Nate he might ever get to be with. It's not his Nate, but it's a Nate that tastes like everything Brad hoped for...

"Brad," Nate whispers and the need in his voice makes Brad open his eyes. The view he gets goes straight to his cock. Nate's parted lips, trying to catch a breath, shirt opened, bare chest just waiting to be touched and kissed.

Brad digs his fingers into Nate's sides, he doesn't care if it leaves bruises, and he moves closer again.

"Tell me what do you want me to do," he whispers against Nate's lips, not caring if he sounds like he's begging. Like he's asking Nate to make this decision for him.

"If you have nothing better to do at the moment," Nate says huskily, "maybe you could fuck me..."

He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Yes, sir," he replies in a soft and reverential tone that is entirely new for him.

Nate smiles at him in approval, his eyes filled with warm laughter. He pushes Brad's button-up shirt off his shoulders, his fingers skimming down across Brad's forearms, up his sides, under the threadbare t-shirt, exploring the skin that's in his reach. His fingers dig in harder when Brad finds the right spot on Nate's neck, right where the collarbone meets his shoulder.

He commits this to his memory, the way Nate's hips buckle against him, the way he ducks his head to seek Brad's lips again, as if desperate for another taste. It's overwhelming, a sensory overload, and Brad isn't sure he can take much of this. Except that he wants it all.

"Where the fuck is your bedroom? If we don't relocate now, I can't guarantee I won't fuck you here in the hall."

The look Nate gives him is downright filthy, like he wouldn't mind, like he wants it. "Fine," is what he says and tugs at Brad's wrist, guiding him to the second door on the left. "Happy now?"

"Ecstatic," Brad mutters, the dry tone he was trying for missed by several clicks when Nate licks at the corner of his mouth then trails downwards, sloppy and careless, tracing kisses down Brad's jaw and throat.

He tries to shift his attention for a second, to figure out his surroundings and locate the bed. He kisses Nate deeply while maneuvering them around, then pushes Nate onto the bed and follows quickly, not giving Nate or himself too much time to think.

Having Nate under him feels even better than having Nate trapped against a wall. His hand goes straight to Nate's zipper and he grins against Nate's throat when he hears Nate's breath hitch.

"Man on a mission," he hears Nate's breathless comment that turns into a moan when Brad closes his fingers around Nate's cock.

"Yes, sir," he manages in-between kisses, traveling down Nate's chest, biting and sucking, the taste and the sounds Nate makes succeeding in making him even harder.

He wants to protest when Nate pulls him up, but the kiss, desperate and demanding, distracts him, makes him forget everything. Because this is Nate and Brad just wants more and more of him.

This need should maybe terrify him, but he's past the point of caring, and besides, he sees that need mirrored in Nate. He stills the kiss for long enough to move away, just enough to take everything in, see the way Nate's back arches when Brad strokes him, slowly, probably too slowly, but the only way in which Nate complains is by pushing his hips up, thrusting into Brad's hand.

When he looks up, Nate's eyes are dark green, almost black, like a stormy sea.

"You here for the show, Brad?" Nate's eyes narrow, but his lips twitch with a held back smile. "Or are you going to fuck me as promised?"

"I should have known you'd be a pushy fucker," Brad shakes his head. "Typical. I think all of you officers are like that," he adds, back to stroking Nate's cock, but he slows it down even more, just to see the reaction.

Nate throws his head back, bits his lip to keep the first response from coming out. Pity. "Not an officer yet," he says instead, after a long moment.

"You know what's the standard answer if they ask you when did you decide to become a Marine?" Brad keeps his tone conversational. It seems to work in driving Nate insane, so he can keep this up for a few more moments. Before he drives himself insane as well.

"Enlighten me," Nate says, the last syllable drawn out into a low moan.

"You say you've always been a Marine. You just didn't know it yet," he says softly and leans down to touch his lips to Nate's, almost chaste, if his hand wasn't on Nate's dick. "I think I've always wanted you,” he adds thoughtfully.

Nate moves quickly, captures Brad's lip with his teeth, bites down before soothing it with his tongue. "Anything you want, Brad," he breathes into Brad's mouth.

Brad shivers at that, enough for his shoulders to shake noticeably.

"That's it, anything," Nate repeats and Brad has known for a while now what he wants, the thought running somewhere under the surface of his consciousness, but the reality, as is its wont, interferes.

"Not exactly prepared for everything," he mutters wryly. "But Marines make do. We'll have to improvise."

Nate hums quietly, a thoughtful sound low in his throat, resonating against Brad's neck. "Not a Marine yet. I don't have to make do," he says prissily, his tone so oddly familiar and comfortable. Brad has spent days aiming for that bemused irritation on occasions.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asks as Nate moves to get up.

"I'm going to steal supplies from my roommate. Well, lube, at least, condoms are in the drawer," he says matter-of-factly, nodding in the general direction of the nightstand.

There's a good joke in here somewhere, about gun lube and batteries and being homoerotic, but Brad doesn't want to waste time trying to joke about this, and besides, Nate wouldn't get it yet. Instead, Brad just watches as Nate hesitates over his pants that Brad has pulled down, now tangled around his legs. Brad half expects him to pull them up again, ruining his work and his view, but Nate just kicks them off unconsciously.

"Be right back," he tosses over his shoulder, catching Brad's gaze. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Brad knows he should be moving towards the drawer, but he can’t make himself stop watching the door. It’s not that he thinks Nate won’t be back, or that it might be a very vivid dream... Though if that’s the case, he does hope he never wakes up.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t move,” Nate’s amused voice brings him back to reality, or maybe a really good wet dream. Brad tries to cover his momentary lack of focus with a smirk. Taking full advantage of the fact he had Marine training and Nate didn’t, not yet at least, he grabs Nate and pulls him back onto the bed.

“It didn’t feel right,” he says, once again moving on top of Nate. He kisses him, again. Checking if Nate tastes different now, but finding him just as intoxicating as before.

“And this does?” Nate asks breathlessly, when Brad moves away.

He’s not sure how to explain it. That it has been years in making, a slow burn of something far beyond his control, something far more powerful than the wars and the fucking robot apocalypse and apparently, more powerful than time and rules of reality itself. At some point he has started living in a trashy sci-fi novel and he doesn’t mind all that much, not now. Because, all things considered, nothing could feel more right than feeling Nate’s heartbeat under his palm, being able to duck his head and nuzzle Nate’s neck, his breath making Nate shiver.

Maybe Nate would get it. Maybe he will, later.

“Yeah, it does,” is all he says. There’ll be time to ponder this later, all the implications and all the ways this could potentially be disastrous. When something like this falls into your lap, you don’t want to waste time second-guessing and Brad had wasted enough time already. “Now, I believe I have been issued a set of orders,” he mutters.

He quickly reaches for the drawer, opens it and grabs a condom, cursing himself for having to take time from exploring Nate’s body. He clearly fails as a Marine. But when he returns his attention to Nate, he sees the need written all over his face. Lips half open, chest rising with every quick, desperate breath. This is an image Brad will take with him to the grave, he thinks this is how heaven could look like.

He kisses Nate, still not able to get enough of that taste, it’s deep and passionate, and fuck, Nate returns the kiss with equal fervor.

His hips move, without any conscious thought, his body seeking more friction, and that makes them both moan. He nudges Nate’s legs apart, settles between them, his fingers digging into the skin of Nate’s inner thigh as he encourages Nate to raise his leg up, let Brad get even closer.

On some detached level, Brad can’t believe this is happening. He had never really expected it could happen and it does still feel surreal. And yet, more real than anything else in his life.

Nate’s mouth is swollen and wet, his lower lip bearing slight indentations from Brad’s teeth, from his own teeth where he has bitten it to keep the sounds from coming out. This won’t do. “I want to hear you,” he says, his voice rough and Nate nods, closes his eyes as his whole body arches, taut and spread out for Brad, his hips rising, pumping his cock into Brad’s hand.

“Brad, fuck, please,” Nate groans, keeping it to the essentials. Brad would smirk, say something light and mocking, but for the life of him he doesn’t care for it now.

What he cares about is finding out exactly how much attention does it take for Nate’s skin to turn red, from the bites and kisses. He does care about every single sound he hears, from the moans to the whimpers, to the pleas. Fucking hell, the pleas and the need in Nate’s voice are driving him insane. All he wants is to follow them to the letter. To bite harder, give Nate more and now and Jesus and fuck...

Nate’s eyes are dark and open wide, as if he was afraid he’d miss something if he closed them even for a second, if he blinked. Brad can relate to this, he’s almost desperate to commit this to his memory, to catalogue every sound Nate makes, the feeling of Nate all around him, the way Nate reaches out and moves closer, and tries to pull Brad in even further, even when they’re as close as they can get, even when Brad’s deep inside him.

It’s overwhelming, everything Nate pervading all of Brad’s senses, and yet it still feels like not enough. Nate spills into his hand and Brad licks his fingers clean, sharp taste on his tongue. When he kisses Nate next it’s close to perfect, as close as it could be, and soon he’s coming, the explosions under his eyelids vaguely reminiscent of a fucking air strike.

He thinks idly, moments later, that the fucking clusterfuck of the OIF would be so much better if he had this; Nate’s mouth on his, warm and slick, anchoring him. It’s not a movie-worthy kiss, it’s sloppy and wet and lazy, and Nate doesn’t seem to mind the fact that Brad’s probably getting heavy.

“That was nice,” Nate says, and his tone is pleasant as if he was discussing weather, but his voice is hoarse from screaming Brad’s name, and that’s another nugget of a memory Brad wants to keep, frame it and carry it wherever he goes. “We should do that again sometime.”

Not for a very long time. But maybe, if Brad gets his way. Maybe.

For now, Brad has to ignore the pussy-ass need to wrap himself around Nate and go to sleep, forgetting about the retarded time-traveling mission. This Nate, the one lying next to him, all sweaty and satisfied, would probably appreciate some cuddling. And Brad, fucking whipped like he is, would probably stay and fucking cuddle if Nate asked him to. But then, ten years in the future, another Nate would kick Brad’s ass for putting personal comfort before the mission that’s supposed to save the mankind.

“I have to go,” he says, standing up, looking away, not ready to face Nate and the disappointment he no doubt would see in his expression. “I need to go through the final mission prep and check the gear, Person probably fucked it all up, even with Poke double checking...” The excuse is weak, even in his own ears.

There’s silence and for a second everything, including Brad, is unnaturally still.

“I’ll come over once Angela gets the passes,” Brad hears. Nate’s voice is calm, and Brad has a sudden flashback to Iraq, when he witnessed Nate’s idealism being slowly stripped away with every fuck up. It makes him turn and finally look at Nate.

It’s not what he expected. There’s disappointment, yes, but none of it is really directed at Brad, it’s disappointment at the world and it’s fucked up timing, and a tinge of regret, but above all, there’s understanding. Brad keeps thinking of Nate, this Nate and of his Nate, as if they were separate people, but that’s bullshit. There’s just Nate, and he’s always been able to get under Brad’s skin.

“We’d appreciate that,” he says and Nate nods slowly, pulling himself up, unselfconsciously, no attention paid to his clothes, or the general lack of them.

He kneels up on the bed, reaching out for Brad, and Brad can’t help it, he takes a step back to the bed. As always, Nate asks and he moves to comply. It’s ingrained, intrinsic now.

“I wasn’t saying goodbye before,” Nate mutters, looking up. His fingers skim along Brad’s collarbone, tracing the tender skin at the place he left a mark on Brad. Brad leans into the touch, he’s allowed to have just this moment more.

He breathes out slowly. “Are you saying it now?”

“I suppose I must. But I guess it’s more of an I’ll see you later than a goodbye.” His smile is small and already nostalgic for something that hasn’t even properly ended yet. Brad feels the same thing resonate inside him, wistfulness that’s bone-deep.

Nate kisses him slowly, as if he’s mapping out his mouth for later, committing Brad’s taste to his memory. When he lets go, there’s no reluctance or hesitance, Nate seems to know perfectly well this has been borrowed time. Quite literally.

“I’ll see you later?” Brad asks, and he’s not talking tomorrow when Angela gets them the passes.

“I almost envy you,” Nate mutters, shaking his head, sitting back on his heels. “You’re taking the shortcut. I’ll be waiting for years.”

It sounds like a promise and Brad desperately wants to believe it. Wants to get back home and see the same look on Nate, the want and the tenderness, wants to see more, see his need mirrored in Nate’s eyes, strengthened by the years. If this has happened, if he hadn’t really fucked up his timeline irreparably, he wants Nate’s desire to last, to be enriched by their friendship and not diminished with time. It’s selfish, to want Nate to wait for him, and the universe has been known to fuck Brad Colbert over time and again, but if he gets one thing, just one thing, he wants this.

“I’ll be seeing you, then,” he tells Nate, moves away with finality and fixes his clothes, fumbles with the buttons for an awkwardly prolonged moment; his fingers a bit clumsy and uncooperative.

“In a few hours, most likely,” is Nate’s only comment, though Brad suspects his unusual clumsiness didn’t go unnoticed. But he appreciates not being called on it.

He gives Nate a slow nod, acknowledging the information and, probably, on some level, saying his own goodbye.

He leaves without a second glance at Nate, afraid that if he looked back he would stay, even without being asked to. It’s almost dawn outside, but the air is still cold against his skin. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. And when he opens them again it’s like he’s awake again. The dream of holding Nate, kissing him, taking him, still fresh in his memory. But now Brad can cope with the reality. The contrast of the warm apartment smelling of the two of them and the cool morning outside makes it easier for Brad to compartmentalize the entire experience. Hide it from the public, keep it just his own.

He’s not sure how long it takes to get from Nate’s apartment to the hotel. He allows himself not to pay attention, both reliving last night and trying to “get his zen back”, as Person would put it. He knows he will need it, because the moment he walks into their hotel room both Ray and Poke will... Do something and say something... And if he’s not Iceman again, fully in control of his emotions, he might kill them. Or let them in on what happened and how much it meant to him.

“We have toilet paper,” Poke informs him cheerfully the first thing after he comes in. “And I took stock of our C4, should be enough.”

“You certainly have a way of choosing different images that come together in interesting ways,” Brad mutters, shaking his head. “I have been assured we’ll get the IDs in a few hours. Looks like we’re mostly set.”

Poke nods and folds the sheet of paper with the plans of the lab. Ray is watching the Simpsons while cleaning his gun, the image is as incongruous as it is comforting. He squints at Brad just as Poke asks “Are you alright, dog?”

“Of course he’s alright, he got laid. Wait till I tell...” he catches Brad’s eye and amends whatever he’s been meaning to say to “absolutely no one. Because I don’t know anyone who’d be interested in learning that you and the Captain had finally knocked your combat boots together. Or, well, trainers in his case, the jailbait that he is. Nice going, Brad.”

Brad tightens his fists and then lets out a breath. Counts to five in his head. “If you’re done, Ray, I’d like to inform you is that the only reason I hadn’t killed you yet is that you are sometimes surprisingly useful. But you’re not that useful.”

“Whatever. You love me,” Ray shrugs. “I assume we’re waiting for the nightfall with the big damn mission? I’m gonna go and stake out the entrances, make sure we’re not blindsided by some late additions shit. Maybe catch last glimpses of some superior co-ed pussy before we jump back to the sad times when no one wears miniskirts, no matter how nicely I ask Walt.”

“This mission already told me more than I ever wanted to know,” Poke says, glancing at Brad out of the corner of his eye. “And now there’s that image. Fuck you very much, Person.”

“Hey, you only wish you could get this ass.”

“No,” Poke informs him, “I really don’t.”

Ray flips him off, grabs his jacket and leaves. Brad tells himself that Ray is being useful, but he can’t help being glad Person left. There was no guarantee that he wouldn’t starting running his mouth again and then Brad really would have to kill the man. And he would have to explain himself to Nate. And deal with Walt pouting and brooding... One time in Iraq was enough of that. He liked the kid too much.

“You alright, dog?” Poke asks the question again and Brad considers dismissing him. Or insulting him. Instead, he looks at his friend for a moment, assessing how much mockery he can see in his eyes. When there’s none, Brad looks away.

“I will be,” he says quietly, not caring if Poke heard it or not. And it’s the truth, which is only a bonus. But he will be alright. Once this whole motherfucking time-traveling shit is done and over with and he can come back and learn he didn’t change too much and he can still have the fucking cake after...

“Better be,” Poke nods. “This mopey shit is seriously annoying to deal with,” he adds with a small grin, busying himself with packing up some CDs. Brad stares at him. “Gifts for the girls. I wanted to get them new mp3 players, but the fuckers won’t be available until sometime next year, I think. Fick could have sent us to the iPod era, but no.”

“We’ll keep that in mind for the next mission. Be sure to include it in your after action report.”

Poke nods. “Will have to fill it with something other than outright lies,” he nods. “Some things Mattis and Ferrando are better off not knowing,” he adds cheerfully, as if the thought of lying to the command was bringing him great satisfaction. “Suppose we can’t hide shit from the Captain, though.”

“I’m pretty sure he’d know even if he wasn’t here for most of it,” Brad mutters and tosses himself onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. He can’t figure out if that’s inconvenient or reassuring.

He’d like to say that he doesn’t spend the next ten minutes thinking about Nate, but lying to himself would be a new low point in his already pathetic existence. He’d also like to say he doesn’t fall asleep thinking about Nate... So when he wakes up a couple of hours later, he makes sure not to dwell on that too much. It’s easy to accomplish when you have Poke looking at you with that fucking smirk on his face.

“What?” he asks, suspicion clear in his voice.

“Didn’t get too much sleep last night?” Poke asks innocently, his attention seemingly back on whatever he’s reading, not even looking at Brad.

“I’m a Marine. I try to catch all the sleep I can get before a mission,” Brad puts all his Iceman persona into that one sentence. Trying to convince Poke that’s exactly what it is. In a matter of hours, if everything goes according to plan, they will be back in their own time and then... Fuck knows what happens then.

“Of course you do, dog,” Poke agrees almost too cheerfully. “Person’s back,” he adds, and Brad can make out Ray’s voice coming from the bathroom, over the sound of water, singing something Brad’s pretty sure is Spice Girls. Of course. “He says the campus is nicely empty. All the coeds probably resting after the Saturday night of debauchery, which is, I’m sure, something you can imagine easily.”

“I’m not a man of great patience,” Brad tells him tersely. Poke just nods.

“I’m very sorry on behalf of the Cap, then,” he says and raises his hand in mock surrender. “Fine, this was my last one. But honestly, dog, we got your back.”

Brad waits.

Poke doesn’t disappoint. “Not in the way Fick does, of course.”

“It’s comforting to know that after all these years you still have the wit and maturity of a twelve year old.”

Poke basically proves his point by flipping him off, but whatever he might want to say is interrupted by a knock on the door. Brad closes his eyes and breathes out, because fuck Nate for even knocking the same way, three short taps, the same rhythm over the years.

Brad doesn’t even move, still sitting on the bed, resigned. Poke doesn’t comment, just raises his eyebrow, and goes to greet Nate.

“‘Sup, dog? We’ve been waiting for you,” he says with a smile. Brad watches Nate smile back and his memory flashes back to few hours ago, when the smile on Nate’s face was different, more private... And fuck, if he keeps this up he will not be able to concentrate.

“I got the passes from Angela,” he informs them, entering the room. Like there was ever any doubt that he would do that. Brad had every confidence in Nate, even before the man singlehandedly equipped them for a time-traveling mission. “And while you might be jumping back into the future, I’m afraid I’ll have to endure years and years of her little jabs for this. I hope you appreciate the sacrifices I make here.”

There’s a playful grin on Nate’s lips, his tone light, but Brad can see right through all that. He see the tension in Nate’s arms and the lack of humor in his eyes. He wonders if Poke sees it as well, but a quick glance tells him that the other man is too busy checking out the ID cards Nate handed to him. Maybe it’s for the best if it’s only Brad who sees the concern, maybe even fear and doubt in Nate’s eyes. Marines like to think the command, especially one that’s not completely retarded, has faith in them and their actions.

“I’m probably going to regret asking,” Nate says quietly, stepping closer to the centre of the room. Closer to Brad, but who’s noticing? Except that his skin starts to almost itch with the proximity. “But how much of the lab do you plan to destroy?”

They hadn’t exactly told him that part, but Nate’s too smart not to figure it out. Know that it’s not just recon and it’s not as easy as wiping a few files. “Thinking up the damage control?”

“I got Susan to show you in, I got you the passes. I need to have a good story for the nice officers if they suddenly become interested in me,” Nate points out, but his voice is off, like he’s thinking of something else. It’s not about his cover story, Brad thinks. He probably has a contingency plan for contingency plans on that one.

“You don’t need to worry,” he tells Nate.

“Although it’s rather sweet. Don’t you think, Brad?” Poke volunteers with a shit-eating grin on his face. Brad’s patience is getting sorely fucking tested.

And not in a small way because of the way Nate’s eyes keep on flickering to him, warm and worried.

“We have it all covered,” he says, choosing to ignore Poke and his fucking smug face. “In and out, we’ll be gone by the time anyone notices we were even there.”

It feels off, to be reassuring Nate. Brad’s not used to that. It’s usually Nate assuring him nothing will go wrong and they will all return home alive and well.

“There’s no other way?” Nate’s question sounds more like a statement and Brad just shakes his head. They spent hours creating this plan. They went through all the variations and possible outcomes. They simply can’t afford to take any chances.

“Okay homes!” Ray leaves the bathroom with an excited smile. “I’m ready to blow some shit up!”

The look Nate gives him pretty much says it all. Brad doesn’t even bother with rolling his eyes, he just shrugs. It’s Ray Person, what can you do?

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” he tells Brad, the corner of his mouth twitching, like he’s holding back a whole different comment.

“It’s probably for the best.”

Nate sighs and shakes his head. “Be careful out there, alright?” he says, smiling ruefully, like he knows it’s not his place to tell them this, but he needs to anyway.

“We’re always careful,” Ray assures him. “We carefully blow shit up. Been carefully blowing shit up since the late 90s. Or was it the early noughties?”

“Nonetheless.” Nate looks straight at Brad this time, unwavering and serious. “I’d prefer it if the next time I saw you, you still had all your limbs.”

“I’m pretty sure you’ll see us before we see you,” Brad mutters. He needs this to be over with. They’ve done this already, went through the goodbyes one too many times. Nate nods.

“I suppose I will,” he looks at Brad, like he’s trying to memorize everything about him, much like Brad did back at Nate’s. He then looks at Poke and at Ray, nodding at each. Even without being their actual commander, Nate’s sending them off on a mission. “I won’t keep you, gentlemen.” For a moment it seems like he wants to add something, like a repeat of ‘be careful’ or other useless shit that will only distract them, but he doesn’t. Brad hears it anyway.

He can tell that both Poke and Ray heard it too. He can see it on their faces. The atmosphere in the room is no longer light. It’s no longer a walk in the park, it’s a fucking mission. And Nate, this Nate, without any proper training or experience in leadership, managed to put them in just the right mindset. Simply by choosing the right words.

They each grab their gear and they leave the room, leaving Nate behind. Brad doesn’t look back, firmly staying in his Iceman mindset.

The campus is, as Ray reported, almost empty. There are two security guards in the building, but they’re far enough from the lab that it doesn’t matter, not unless they pick up on the noise or movement. Which they won’t, Brad’s assured of this.

Ray stands guard while Brad and Poke go in. The passes are solid, not that there was any doubt, considering the choice, but it’s nice to see the light flicker from red to green and the door give way all the same.

“I guess that’s it,” Poke says, shaking his head. The installation doesn’t look dangerous, more like a contraption from an 80s sci-fi movie. Which is appropriate, if you think about it. It’s wires and circuits and looks like it could crash if you just as much as breathed on it. But this is the case where the looks are more than deceiving and they can’t take the chances.

“Let’s just get on with it,” Brad mutters. “Charges?”

Poke hands him one of the packets and sets to install the other. There’s documentation to get rid of as well, and there’s no telling what back-ups they have. Fire sale, everything has to go.

They set up the charges, gather all the data discs and hard copies of documentation in one place, making sure they didn’t miss anything. They set up the timers so that they have enough time to clear out and at the same time not have some retard security guard get injured by accident. It all happens just the way Brad told Nate it would. They are in and out in a matter of minutes.

Brad holds his breath as they leave the building and are forced to cross the square. That’s the one point where they have absolutely no cover, the sole reason they needed to make the timing perfect, to make sure the security is patrolling the other side of the complex when they enter and leave. Nothing happens, no raised voices demanding what they’re doing there. When they get to cover again, Brad feels like he can breathe again. They did it.

“We did it, homes,” Ray says in a tone of wonder, watching the building like a hawk, waiting for the explosion.

Brad nods, then turns at the sound of someone approaching fast, close to a run. He tenses and then relaxes when he recognises Nate, but then tenses again. What the fuck is he doing here? “You shouldn’t be here,” he tells him.

Nate nods. “Neither is Susan. Angela said she went back for some of her notes on something and...”

Brad glances back towards the building. They have maybe three minutes. Enough time to get her out.

“I don’t suppose she has a cellphone?” Ray mutters sadly and then nods. “I hate the 90s. Let’s go.”

Nate steps forward and Brad reaches out, stops him in his spot, hand flat on Nate’s chest. “Stay here.”

“Brad.”

“Stay here. I don’t have time to argue about this, so just fucking stay here, please.”

“Alright,” Nate relents and steps back, and Brad’s moving already, following Ray and Poke back inside. Fucking college students and their fucking notes. Who studies on a Sunday evening? Nate’s friends, that’s who.

“We need to split to cover more ground. No telling where exactly she is,” Brad says and gets quick nods of acknowledgment, and Poke mutters ‘Copy that’ before he’s on his way. It would be so much easier if they thought to prepare the explosives so the timers could be reset. Something to remember for the next fucking time travel clusterfuck.

He starts with the lab but Susan’s not there. The lights on the charges flicker at him merrily and he checks his watch quickly. Two minutes. Time trickles as he searches the floor, finding no one.

Then Poke runs in, curiously coming from the general direction of the entrance and not his sector. “Found her, got her out. We need to get Ray and we can be on our way.”

Brad looks at his watch. They’re running out of time. Fuck. They need to find Ray in his sector and get out before the explosion.

With a sharp nod, acknowledging what Poke just said, he starts running towards Ray’s sector. The security is no longer their concern and so they keep yelling for Person, hoping the noise will draw him out. Something cold settles in Brad’s stomach. Years of experience making it quite obvious that what started as a well executed mission now is completely shot.

Still moving as quickly as possible to locate Ray, fucking Ray, who can’t just get lost in the past because then Brad would have to deal with Walt and his sad puppy eyes for the rest of his life; he reaches to his backpack and retrieves the remote control. Just in case.

“Shit homes, what the fuck? I haven’t found the girl yet!” they hear Ray and soon after that they see him emerge from around the corner. They grab his and start running towards the exit.

“Poke got her out. Now we need to extract ourselves or we’ll get the first row seats to the fireworks,” as Brad says it they hear the first explosion that sets up another one and another one. The floor shakes from the power of it all. Too late.

“Fuck,” Poke says, a rather perfect assessment of the situation if you ask Brad.

There’s one way out now. They could try and make it out through the windows on the side of the building that’s not burning yet, but by the time they get there, it could be. Brad makes a decision and pushes in the number sequence into the remote. He hesitates on the last number. “Get closer,” he tells Person who’s standing maybe four feet away. Brad’s not taking any chances.

“I’m flattered, but Walt would be angry. Not to mention the Captain could have a problem with this,” he prattles on but he steps in, as close as they were in that fucking ring during the first time hop.

Brad puts in the last number and presses execute. The room shakes with a new explosion, almost drowned by the crackling sound all around them. He can feel the heat from the fire blast, and then the world goes white, blinding. Everything disappears.

***

 _Nate walks down the hallway of their temporary headquarters, listening to Pappy’s report on the latest mission they ran. He hears all the facts and makes note of all the mistakes his men made during the mission, but at the back of his head, he once again catalogues all the differences between Pappy and Brad._

 _Patrick is a competent NCO, he works well with Nate, there’s no denying it. He knows his job and the men listen to him. But the rhythm of his steps doesn’t blend in with Nate’s. Nate has to remember to verbalize his thoughts and sugar coat his doubts for Pappy, because while he’s a great Marine, Pappy doesn’t read Nate the way Brad used to._

 _Nate doesn’t like to think about Brad nowadays. Everything’s still in chaos after D-Day finally came, few weeks ago. Intellectually, Nate knows that Brad is alive, but he can’t help but worry. When all hell broke loose, Brad was supposed to be Stateside already, back from his stint with the Royal Navy. But with the communications between the various human military forces being almost non-existent Nate can’t know that for sure. Brad might as well still be in England, and Nate would not be able to get to him._

 _He shouldn’t be worrying about things beyond his control but it can’t be helped. And it’s unpleasantly reminiscent of another time when Nate had to stand by and wait._

 _But in a small way, this is comforting. Brad has to make his way back to Nate because Nate knows he had before. Has to be here so Nate can, in a few months, or in a few years, send him on a mission that will go awry._

 _On second thought, not comforting at all._

 _“Reynolds should be out of the infirmary tomorrow, and other then that, everyone is fine. Tired, but fine,” Pappy concludes and Nate nods._

 _“Make sure they’re not on the roster for today or tomorrow. And get some rest yourself,” he adds and Pappy grimaces, like he’s holding back an instinctive yawn that appeared when he actually let in the thought of maybe being tired as well._

 _“Will do, sir. I don’t think...” he stops when Walt appears, almost bouncing down the corridor. It seems like good news. They’re due a lucky break, Nate thinks, everything’s been on a fast route to hell these last few days. Pappy’s team was the only one in the last few weeks to come back with minimal casualties and that’s because they’ve been running an experimental strategy. The machines were bound to adapt soon._

 _“You will never believe this,” Walt announces, smiling widely._

 _“I could try, if you told me what it was.”_

 _“Right,” Walt ducks his head. “Okay, no. You should see for yourself,” he decides and makes a gesture for Nate to follow. Nate exchanges incredulous looks with Pappy, who just shrugs, his expression growing curious. Walt has been in a dark mood for the last few days, whatever caused this joy has to be good._

 _“Look what the cat dragged in,” Walt announces, and Brad stands up from his chair, almost at attention but not quite, offering a half-hearted and tired salute, but his eyes are firmly on Nate’s, like he’s waiting for the reaction._

 _“Fuck, we should have known the robots wouldn’t stop the Iceman,” Pappy mutters. “Last time we’ve heard, you were still in England. Built yourself a raft and sailed all the way here?”_

 _His words are almost inaudible over the sound of Nate’s heart pounding in his chest. For all the world he wants to reach out and touch Brad, makes sure he’s real and solid and there. Pull him close and hold on. “It’s good to have you back, Sergeant,” he says instead._

 _“I couldn’t let you have all the glory, sir,” Brad shrugs, as if this wasn’t one of the most important moments they shared. Brad’s here and he’s okay. And even though Nate can’t do anything, can’t move in for a hug, like he’s sure all his men did when they saw Brad... He likes to think that Brad’s face softened when he saw Nate, that it meant something._

 _Maybe it will, in the next few years._

 _In the meantime, he smiles and nods. Can’t keep Brad Colbert from the first line of human defense against the machines, can they?_

 _“Though, I’m afraid that despite my best efforts, I might’ve alerted Person to our location,” Brad continues, “I hope you won’t blame me, sir, if he manages to show up.”_

 _“If he does, I will put him on your team as a punishment,” he informs Brad with a smile._

 _It feels good to be able to talk to Brad again, to see him alive and relatively well, handling the whole end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it business. If it was up to Nate he’d just stay right where they are, cataloguing every inch on Brad, making sure there are no injuries, no bruises. But he knows he can’t have that. He needs to send him to the infirmary, to let Doc Bryan look at him. And he needs Walt to organize a place for Brad to rest, maybe even eat something._

 _There are number of things Nate has to set up, all the things Brad needs to do before he and Nate can talk again. Before Nate will send Brad out there, ordering him to risk his life for Nate._   
_Again._

 _***_

 

Nate doesn’t count minutes. His pulse is racing, the sound almost deafening, like the ticking sound of a very annoying clock, but he wills himself to concentrate on the matter at hand, not the what-ifs of it all.

At first nothing changes. The screen that tracks the movements of the Mainframe’s scouts doesn’t register anything suspicious, they’re still around the old Dartmouth campus, searching. Nate’s gaze is drawn to the space of the old lab; they had rebuilt it after the explosion. He remembers the explosion, so it must have happened, Brad and the others were there.

Poke rushed out with Susan, told her to run and went back inside. Susan stumbled forward in the dark, asking Nate what was going on, confused and worried. It took a moment of convincing to get her away from the building, under the cover of the trees. They had excellent seats for the explosion.

He wants to think they got out. The other exit, through the back windows, somehow. Wants to think they got back to the future, that Brad decided their mission was completed and there was no need to search Nate out again; he’s done his part, both in helping them and in fucking it up and endangering both them and Suze.

The red dots on the screen start shifting. At first it’s almost unnoticeable, their movements not hinting at any direction, but after a moment it’s clear they’re retreating. Like they found what they were looking for, maybe, and are carrying it back. Or maybe, like they found nothing because there’s nothing to be found anymore. Wasn’t there to begin with, not for years.

The alarms start ringing and Nate takes off running. What he feels can’t be hope, he doesn’t allow himself that, but it’s not quite dread either. It sets in his stomach, warm and cold at the same time as he makes his way back to the level two.

He doesn’t stop until he’s in the room with Walt and Allen again. For a second, he thinks he’s imagining this. That he finally cracked and what he sees are hallucinations. But no, all three of his men are standing right there in front of him, inside the damn ring.

He can see the stupid grins on their faces the moment they realize they’ve made it back. He forces himself to look for injuries on all of them, before he gaze settles on Brad.

Brad’s there, alive. He didn’t die in the explosion, he managed to get them all out using the remote... It’s as if Nate’s entire reality shifted. Brad came back, came back to Nate and Nate can finally...

But first things first.

“Well done, gents. Mainframe forces are leaving the area, they hadn’t found anything,” he tells them. “I think we can spare some time before the debriefing. Why don’t you all get some rest, Corporal Person,” Nate raises his voice to get Ray’s attention.

Person immediately moves away from Walt. “Sorry, sir. It’s just the past, it fucked with my brain... There was all this co-ed pussy and no Walt, it would be really fucking depressing if it wasn’t for hot showers and bacon. Sir.”

“Well, I hope you brought some back,” Allen mutters. “I miss bacon.”

“No bacon, but I have two rolls of toilet paper,” Poke says cheerfully. “But it’s mine, you can’t have it,” he adds and looks at Nate. “Well, this was an interesting mission, sir. Let’s not do this again.”

Nate nods and waits until everyone slowly files out of the room. Allen lingers a moment, turns off the machinery and waits until it winds down, and only then steps away and closes the doors behind him. Brad doesn’t move a muscle throughout it all. Nate’s slightly afraid to look at him, except he wouldn’t be able to help himself if his life depended on it. It’s been something like fifteen minutes.

It’s been something like twelve years.

“Could have saved us a few surprises if you shared a few significant bits of intel,” Brad says finally, his expression dead calm.

“I remembered you not knowing. You were surprised to see me.”

“Yes, because _you_ didn’t tell us.”

Nate sighs. “Because I remembered you not knowing,” he repeats, and he’s aware he sounds like a stubborn five year old. “I know it’s a casualty loop of idiocy that is entirely my own making, but cut me some slack, I’m not exactly an expert in time paradox and time travel.”

“Except you are. You’ve been planning this for years and you didn’t tell me.” The words are reproachful, but the tone isn’t. Brad sounds for all the world like he’s pleading with Nate. For something, Nate can’t quite tell, but he’s ready to give Brad everything he wants. Whatever Brad wants.

“I couldn’t tell you, because you didn’t know, and because you would have thought I finally cracked. Hell, there were days I thought I finally cracked. And yes, it’s been years, and all that time I thought you probably died in that explosion.” He can feel something hot under his eyelids, and his lips feel chapped and dry. “Let’s just say I fucked it up and leave it at that. You’re back, and you’re alive, and the last thing I want to do is argue with you, for fuck’s sake.”

Brad’s expression changes and he looks as if Nate sucker punched him.

“Tell me what do you want me to do,” Brad whispers and even though it’s been years, Nate remembers Brad saying the exact same thing, in a different room, with much less light around. In a different world.

Once again it’s Nate decision, it’s Nate’s words that dictate what Brad will and will not do. So much responsibility, Nate doesn’t think he can take any more of this surreal moment.

“Prove to me you’re alive,” he tells him, tone might not be matching Brad’s, but it’s still a desperate plea in Nate’s own ears. “After twelve years... I don’t think I believe it just yet. Just prove to me that--” Nate doesn’t finish the sentence because Brad moves closer, finally crossing the distance between them.

“You’ve seen me a few minutes ago,” he points out, his hand on Nate’s neck, heavy and warm. Nate leans into the touch.

“Feels longer,” he offers, the smile he tries to call up feels sharp and bitter. “And I’ve waited for this--” he doesn’t get to finish because Brad’s kissing him finally, licking at Nate’s mouth like he doesn’t need oxygen anymore, like Nate instead is the only thing keeping him alive. Nate can relate.

They must have moved at some point, because he can feel the lines of bricks against his back, even through his clothes. Brad’s leg is between his thighs, his hands tangled in Nate’s shirt. When Nate moves instinctively against him, Brad groans and ducks his head, his face buried in Nate’s shoulder for a moment as he breathes out, warm and wet.

Nate can see the red mark on Brad’s neck, still fresh and new. He leans to tongue it, bite at the edge, and Brad makes a strangled noise. “I’ve left it twelve years ago,” Nate says in wonder.

“You’ve left it last night,” Brad points out.

And it’s confusing again, the whole time travel problem, the rift between what Nate remembers and what Brad experienced. The moments and years that distance that one memory they share.

“Doesn’t matter,” he decides. Because it really doesn’t. What happened moments ago, or twelve years ago, it doesn’t matter because they are both here. Now.

He pulls Brad into another kiss, realizing that now that he can do this, can kiss Brad, there’s very little chance he will ever get enough of it.

In the back of his mind he knows he should be debriefing the team, making them write reports of the mission that didn’t actually take place. Getting the Godfather on the comms, to tell him that the mission was a success. There are million little things he needs to be doing right now, but none of them matter. Not when he feels Brad against him. Not when his hands are busy relearning Brad’s body. He waited too long for this, giving up hope over and over again. And even though the war with the machines will still be there when they leave the room, somehow the faith that everything will be alright is stronger than ever.

Brad’s lips against his are soft now, this kiss is slow and sloppy, like they have all the time in the world. It’s a good feeling, and it happens to ring true.

“I don’t know about you,” Brad says slowly, drawing his words out, his tongue almost moving against Nate’s lips when he speaks. “But I’d say this mission was a success.”

“You have reached your objective, if straying somewhat from the SOP.”

“What exactly is the SOP for time travel, sir? Besides, I’ve figured that if you were dead set against any of my actions, you would have said something beforehand. Like: Brad, and by the way, if you happen to come across a younger, jailbait version of me with splendid cocksucking lips, make sure you don't accidentally fuck me ten ways to Sunday.”

Brad’s smiling now, a wide brilliant smile Nate wants to taste, that he can taste.

“Very astute, Sergeant.”

Outside of this room there’s a myriad of things to do, work still to be done, but right now, time stands still.

  
THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Noelia: It’s a time travel AU, so it’s fitting that it has been created in under five minutes, at a coffee shop, and then proceeded to take over weeks of myour lives.  
> Inspired by basically everything. Consciously, we have borrowed from the Terminator series (especially the first one, and the fourth one), The Sarah Connor Chronicles and Dollhouse. Unconsciously, we have probably picked up bits and pieces from everywhere. Nothing recognisable is ours.  
> Everything we know about American colleges, we’ve learned from tv. Everything about Dartmouth, we made up.  
> This has been an amazingly fun ride. Slightly exhausting, but fun, and fueled by caffeine and obsession.  
> I’d like to thank Cala for writing this with me, and for indulging in some of my not-so-secret-now plot kinks. And, as always, I want to thank [info]kubis, who dragged me into this fandom, and when I was well and truly head over heels, demanded I wrote her fic. Here it is, fic.
> 
> Cala: For me, it started with a question of what would happen if Derek Reese was in the same universe as Brad Colbert. My brain froze. I honestly don't remember much else. My next memory is of us, sitting in a different coffee shop, drawing a timeline in my daily planner. I think till the end of days, I will refer to this fic as the Time Travel Epic Shit, and the outline that was created with five different font colors in Googledocs will always have a special place in my heart.  
> This fic would never happen if it wasn't for [info]kubis, blame everything on her.  
> I no longer remember who wrote what, so when in doubt, assume the small words are mine. And the shower. I'm to blame for the shower


End file.
